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.
Since childhood I have been fascinated by the history of polar exploration, intrigued by the tales of adventure, the discovery of the unknown and the mortal dangers faced in the most hostile and remote landscapes on earth.
Among the heroic tales of polar discovery, there are none to compete with the plight of the ill-fated 1914 Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition led by Sir Ernest Shackleton in his bid to be the first to lead a team across the Antarctic Continent: a mission he never completed, for his ship the Endurance became ice-bound before reaching the Antarctic Continent proper. Overnight Shackleton’s priorities changed from discovery to saving the lives of his crew in the most challenging conditions on earth.
The story of how he did this and the saga of the 800 mile voyage across the Southern Ocean in the James Caird, a 22.5 foot open boat is one of the legendary achievements from the age of discovery.
In selecting his crew members Shackleton made one truly inspirational decision appointment of Australian Frank Hurley as the Expedition Photographer. In an age when reportage photography was still in its infancy the decision to appoint Hurley was to prove visionary. The harsh hand of fate dealt to Shackleton conversely was to provide Hurley with virgin locations, immense vistas, and unrivalled documentary subjects which when combined enabled Hurley to create one of the most astonishing historic collections of early reportage and landscape photographs of the early 20th century.
Our childhood interests and early exposure shape us - in Zsolt’s case it was the landscapes of J.R. R. Tolkien that captured his imagination, and with a shortage of printed matter available (something that’s hard to imagine now) pictures and photos became especially precious to him. Career and hobby began in parallel, and he credits this with influencing his decision not to turn ‘pro’ along with the realisation that such a choice would not in fact increase the time he could spend pursuing his passion projects. Not surprisingly, these are often mountains and dramatic landscapes that could come straight from the pages of a book.
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 as a career?
I had a really beautiful Eastern European childhood; I was born and grew up in the Transylvanian part of Romania. From a very early age, I was attracted to drawing and every kind of picture. Back then, there was a shortage of local magazines and it was almost impossible to purchase magazines with pictures of any kind, so pictures and photographs became even more valuable to me, they were a real treasure. With time I become less and less satisfied with my drawing abilities; arts of any kind were not a stable option anyway, so in the end, I decided to attend medical university and became a dentist. Despite the fact that I had a camera during my childhood, and right after high school I even had a decent film SLR, photography only began to attract me later, by the end of university, so basically, right after it, I began my dental career and my photography hobby at the same time, in parallel, always making sure to have free time for photography. That worked out well for me, and probably this is why I never became a professional photographer - I knew well that for the creative part of my personal photography I would not gain even more time by becoming a pro.
What was it that prompted a particular passion for mountains? Was it this that led you to photography and does making images now come first?
I wish I could explain how my love of mountains came about :) I never gave it much thought; now that you ask, I don't think I know the answer. It started in childhood. What I know is that I grew up far from the mountains, but my parents use to bring me to the mountain areas sometimes, on summer holidays. It was a different world there: I was mesmerised by the size and beauty of it; it gripped my imagination; it was a place of adventure and wonder. Even as an adult the mountains are the place where I feel the best and where I can see (feel) everything more clearly.
Actually, the mountain trips were the reason why I started to take photography more seriously, I wanted to give it back, to show those experiences to others. My passion for mountains came first, they were some kind of main interest to me - probably that is why I was never interested to practice other genres.
I live in one of the most popular tourist and recreational locations in eastern New South Wales, Australia, just one hour drive north of Sydney, close to hand with over seventeen sandy beaches that stretch up this coastline, I'm spoiled for choice. But this is not where I grew up, in fact, it couldn't be far more removed. Born and raised in the South Wales industrial valley of Merthyr Tydfil, where a trip to the beach was an annual holiday event only, a fortnight at Tenby or Oxwich. That was pretty much my experience of the coast. So when I arrived here in 1982 I felt as though I were on a continual holiday.
The Entrance NSW
I have always made pictures, can't remember when I started, but mum used to let me pinch dad's camera when he was at work so I could go out over the fields and point it at anything that took my fancy; I still have a couple of those shots.
When I started to take pictures here in Australia, I had difficulty in getting to grips with the vibrancy of light and colour, I didn't know how to deal with it. So photography become a now and then pastime, but there was always this niggling little thing going on in me that photography is what I wanted to do.
Now I'm not going to bore you with life's adventure, other than to say, it happened. Since then I have made pictures of Prime Ministers, Fighter pilots, world-renowned musicians and Olympic champions. Made pictures on million-dollar ocean yachts, hung out of helicopters, I was even one of the first photographers to take pictures in the newly appointed Purnululu National Park situated in the Kimberly region of Western Australia. The area was gazetted as a National Park in 1987, I went in in 1989. But this article is not about the past, but the now.
Frazer Beach NSW
Frazer Beach NSW
In all the years I have been shooting digital, a long time now, I have never fallen in love with it, digital that is, not like I used to when shooting film on my very much loved Pentax 67. Digital from a creative point just never gave me the satisfaction of making pictures, from a commercial point, it works amazingly well. But I'm a realist and times move on. So in an attempt to fall back in love with taking pictures on a personal basis, not just as a commercial venture. I purchased a new camera the Fuji GFX 50s, in all its medium format loveliness.
Now here's my dilemma. With so many people owning a camera and the vast majority of them being landscape photographers; then, for me living in a very popular over photographed area, I will have to push myself to come up with an image that will offer more to the viewer. Creative challenge accepted.
This is the camera I used to make these images. As I mentioned earlier, we have a lot of beaches, so what better than to make coastal/ocean landscape images. So these new images are in some way my attempt to fall in love with it as a form of enjoyment again.
Now here's my dilemma. With so many people owning a camera and the vast majority of them being landscape photographers; then, for me living in a very popular over photographed area, I will have to push myself to come up with an image that will offer more to the viewer. Creative challenge accepted.
I set myself some parameters. Light being the obvious, low light, vibrant light the list can go on. Colour, I will think and shoot in colour, why not there's plenty of it. Movement, that's a good one, the last, life. This one I decided to make about myself. The images are made along the coast that has shaped who I am in this new country I now call home. There is quite a list to this. A couple of bonus point's in this one. Not only will this keep my costs down it will also reduce my carbon footprint in the endeavour of making pictures. I figured I owe it that much, with three trips around this very big country, work-related, and five trips back and for to the UK before COVID restrictions kicked in. So, I thought this is going to be a doddle.
Putty Beach NSW
Spoon Bay NSW
This is where my problems started, thinking it was going to be easy, boy did I get that wrong. I had no idea how many people now make landscape pictures. One particular place I frequent, Norah Head, mainly because it has great a coastline with a lighthouse to boot. Well, this particular morning I get there quite early, well before sunup. First off there were a couple already set up with cameras attached to tripods and pointing at the horizon line on the hilltop.
One of those locations I came up with is a beautiful bay called Frazer beach, situated in Munmorah State Recreation Park. It's a bit more of a drive, 35-45 minutes in the car, but enough remoteness to put off many a landscape shooter who doesn't like to walk far.
Then there were more down on the beach, by the time I found something made a few exposures I turned around and counted well over 8 tripods all doing the same thing. I was going to have to think about my locations for this self-imposed assignment.
One of those locations I came up with is a beautiful bay called Frazer beach, situated in Munmorah State Recreation Park. It's a bit more of a drive, 35-45 minutes in the car, but enough remoteness to put off many a landscape shooter who doesn't like to walk far. This place will, no matter what time of day offers something that will take a picture. But you do have to watch the swell, I have been caught a couple of times, luckily enough only getting my trousers wet and not the gear. I go back quite a bit, even to make portraits.
One of the techniques I like to employ every now and then when shooting a moving subject like water or trees in the wind is multiple layering. This technique offers up, depending on how many exposures you want, many still or moving images on top of each other. I first tried this out when I used to use a panoramic camera called a Noblex. It didn't have a very slow shutter, the slowest I think from memory was around a 1/15th, obviously not enough for landscape work; so I used to calculate the exposure needed to layer still's on top of each other without winding on. Now, these days you let the camera work the math out, so much easier. But you still need a good tripod. I quite like this method. This is one of the lovely joys of making landscape images, it affords you the time to use the technology to create, as you are usually on your own and there's nobody you need to think about other than getting what you want.
Bateau Bay NSW
Now due to the fact I'm Welsh, I do like a bit of weather, so I tend to keep an eye on the sky and if I feel it's going to offer something then that's when my wife will let me know I need to get out, but I think that's got to do more with the fact she wants to get rid of me for a while. When the sky is empty, I call it; nobodies home sky, it just doesn't move me very much, give me a cloud any day, or Welsh mist. Ah! Welsh mist, my eyes just glazed over then.
I'm not making any artistic statement with these images, they are about my home, where I live, there's no motive in them other than this is the landscape I live with every day and I chose to photograph it this way, I could have chosen a different approach and hidden the marks of man, but what would be the point, we live in the landscape, it's unfortunate that many people don't realise it.
Frazer Beach NSW
Frazer Beach NSW
I have three or four, hold on I'll just count, four filters, but I usually end up using around one the Soft Grad 0.9. Mind you the GFX can handle a lot on its own.
All my work is shot in RAW, although I'm told the Fuji jpgs are pretty good. edited in Capture One Pro, dodged, burnt and spotted, if I missed any in Photoshop, I do add a slight grain, call me old fashioned. Simple.
Color is all. When color is right, form is right.~ Marc Chagall
Kodachrome, introduced in 1935, was the first colour film to be mass-marketed successfully. Although Kodachrome quickly became popular with hobbyists and commercial photographers, so-called “fine-art photographers” have initially shunned the use of colour, and many have expressed derisive views of colour photography. It is both common and ironic that any time a new technology or aesthetic is introduced into the photographic milieu, it is greeted with dogmatic ire. This was the case when flexible film made glass plates obsolete, when simple hand-held cameras became affordable and widely available, when colour photography was invented, when computerised processing tools expanded photographers’ creative options beyond what was possible using chemistry, and when digital capture technology began to rival the capabilities of film.
I lived in North Cumbria for nearly forty years. During that time I fell in love with the area, married, raised a family, and took up photography. And fell in love with the area all over again. For over a decade I took photographs almost exclusively in an area encompassing the Eden Valley and Ullswater. It became the photographic equivalent of a comfort blanket. I knew every nook and cranny. I knew the best times to go to all those nooks and crannies. My photography fell into similar patterns. Out in the morning. First light. Different locations for dawn at different times of the year. Knowing where the mist would be in certain conditions. It was almost too easy.
People would ask how I got some of my shots and I would just reply – I pointed the camera in the right general direction and press the shutter release. It really was just a case of pointing and shooting.
People would ask how I got some of my shots and I would just reply – I pointed the camera in the right general direction and press the shutter release. It really was just a case of pointing and shooting.
Yet another photographer will scarcely care where he goes; he has learnt to select, and finds pictures everywhere. He does not do this by instinct or inborn faculty; he has had to inquire his knowledge; he has learnt to know what he wants, and picks it up the moment it is before him–he has learnt to see~ Henry Peach Robinson
Several years ago on my blog, I opined on the number of Milky Way photos flooding social media and magazines at the time in a piece I titled “Milky Way Fatigue.” Fast forward to today and Milky Way fatigue has been replaced by dune fatigue. It borders on ludicrous the number of images of sand dunes I have seen over the last few years, a trend that shows no signs of abating. It would seem the Mesquite Dunes in Death Valley National Park may be the most photographed piece of natural real estate in the world, and Death Valley the most photographed national park. It's not to say many if not most of the images aren’t beautiful, they certainly are. But, it’s the worn out subject matter that has me tired and questioning. Why are so many photographers limiting themselves to such popular subject matter and places?
It's not to say many if not most of the images aren’t beautiful, they certainly are. But, it’s the worn out subject matter that has me tired and questioning. Why are so many photographers limiting themselves to such popular subject matter and places?
I realise I am wading into potentially hazardous waters here. Far be it from me to tell people what they should and should not photograph. Our choice of subject matter is clearly a very personal one. And yet, I am frustrated by the copycat feel of the images and the lack of imagination. I understand the lure of dunes, they are a photographer’s dream subject. That they are inspiring is beyond question. I also understand the desire to photograph interesting geographic features in general, the awareness of such no doubt fueled by social media in recent years. We see a great image of something interesting and unique and we wish to photograph it ourselves. The problem is when too many people act on this urge the subject matter becomes tired and cliche. As a viewer I have become completely desensitised to images of dunes and other iconic scenes in Death Valley, just as I have of Half Dome or El Capitan in Yosemite, to name a few. It’s one of the reasons I have little desire to photograph the national parks today. I love to visit them, but I have little interest in photographing them. Why? The reasons are several, but the big one is because everyone else is. The more dune photos I see the more I feel compelled to pull away from the crowd and express my vision elsewhere. It is why I have an appreciation for and admiration of those photographers who primarily photograph in ordinary places with ordinary subject matter. They are seeking something inside themselves first, the subject matter is secondary.
My first introduction to landscape photography was while climbing mountains in the Lake District and at the time, it was just a hobby and my images were a record of where I’d been, rather than something I considered a creative pursuit. As I focused more time on refining my photography skills, it became more of a passion and an invaluable balance to the daily challenges of work and sometimes of life in general.
I now find photography to be an important creative outlet and on occasions, it’s helped me pull through some dark and challenging times. For some people, it might be music or painting but for me, it’s creating images that represent the environments and places I love and feel a connection to. It’s something I do for my own enjoyment and of course, it’s always a pleasant bonus if someone else appreciates an image. Maybe they see the same thing I did when I composed it, maybe they derive their own meaning from it – either way, it’s brought a sense of enjoyment to someone else, which is a pleasant side-effect but never my original intention.
I’ve often been told that my images portray a sense of calm and maybe that’s a result of what I find rewarding in an image or what my eye is naturally drawn to. That’s not to say that all my photographs are of peaceful scenes. I also enjoy finding interesting abstracts or compositions with dark, moody skies but maybe some of my own state of mind still comes through in the resulting images.
I have chosen one of Paul Wakefield’s images as my End Frame. So much has been said about Paul’s wonderful work by those far more knowledgable and insightful than me, what can I possibly add that had not been said before and is worth saying.
These, therefore, are just my personal, rather random thoughts about the image, sometimes prompted by other peoples’ commentary about Paul’s work.
The image appears in Paul’s book called The Landscape. It is a fantastic book and one to which I often return. This image shot at Fjallsarlon in Iceland is one that has stayed very clearly in my head and, thinking back, I am sure it was always in the back of my mind when I visited the Arctic in 2019.
In the last instalment (Part Two) of my meandering exploration of the history of landscape art, I talked about the birth of what most people would consider landscape painting.
If you'd like to take a look at these two articles the links are here :-
This period of mostly Northern European artwork stood on its own, away from the Italianate painters of the day. This independence probably derived from a weakened influence Catholic church and its sway over the artwork in Italy. Painters like Albrecht Altdorfer, Wolf Huber, Joachim Patinir, Albrecht Durer etc found an independent market for their work and were able to indulge their own passions, albeit still being influenced by Royal patronage and Italianate painting styles to some extent.
In the mid to late 16th century, painters such as Pieter Bruegel the Elder brought applied his Italian training and started to produce work influenced by the Northern school and his flemish predecessors (such as the World Landscapes of Joachim Patinir and Gillis van Conninxloo). The etchings below show a few examples.
Large Landscapes (1555)
Returning to the burgeoning city of Antwerp, he took some of these skills and applied them to painting scenes of daily life, something that would be called ‘genre painting’. Scenes such as markets, drinking establishments, workers in fields, etc. found popularity with the newly wealthy population of a country that no longer felt the oppressive hand of the Catholic church and who turned to Calvinism or perhaps the later Dutch Reformed Church instead.
Interestingly, it seems likely that the success of public art during this period was a product of the very successful studio "Aux Quatre Vents" (At the Four Winds), run by Wife and Husband Volcxken Dierix and Hieronymous Cock (Hieronymous is latin for Sacred Name which, in English, would be Jerome). They would take painted works and convert them to engravings which were then printed for ‘mass’ distribution. Many of the artists would have been known by their engravings more than their painted originals.
If you like your mountains big and have ambitions for adventure, read on… We have a fascinating interview for you with French photographer Julien Fumard, who despite saying he’s not really into physical activity hasn’t let this stop him from undertaking a series of expeditions to the Himalayas that many only dream of. By staying with local families, he has experienced not only remote landscapes but also village life in harsh environments, and we make no apology for the fact that the images in this feature include both people and place. All too often our photography separates the two, and through Julien’s eyes, we gain an insight into what we might stand to learn if we don’t.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?
My name is Julien Fumard. I was born in Marseille, in the south of France 39 years ago and lived there until my mid-twenties; I now live in Meyrargues, about 50kms up north. Since my teenage years, I’ve been passionate about music, especially the hard kind, the one that gets your head banging and gives you the strength to overcome anything: metal. I even played in a band as a guitarist for a few years. That was THE thing for me! At that time I had absolutely no interest in photography, and it remained like that for quite a while. I also had a growing interest in nature which was kind of hard to fulfil, living in a big city like that. So I was very frustrated in that sense, but sometimes with friends, we would borrow my parents’ car and drive to a nearby forest, make a big bonfire - which was absolutely forbidden (and stupid considering how dry the region is) - and partied the whole night before dropping asleep in bags that were barely warm enough. I loved these short moments in the wild. I guess my parents bringing me to the mountains was the reason for my interest in nature. When I was a child I loved watching forests where creatures of myths and legends were living hidden from human sight.
I guess my parents bringing me to the mountains was the reason for my interest in nature. When I was a child I loved watching forests where creatures of myths and legends were living hidden from human sight.
I still try to imagine these creatures today, although with age and a more Cartesian mind the magic tends to dissolve. But music, travelling and to a certain extent photography somehow bring me back to these childhood feelings of wonder and mystery.
Later on, the woman I still live with now pushed me to go on a trip to Scandinavia. She had been there with her father as a kid and well, Norway was the country of black metal and trolls, so that sounded like a really great idea. We left with our car, a tent and a trunk full of food - and wine - and there we went up until the northern tip of Norway. Despite the hardships, this month long trip was a revelation to me. I remember using my girlfriend’s pocket camera all the time - it was actually a gift I’d just made for her birthday. That’s when I started to get interested in photography. It was not yet a passion but the travelling bug on the other end had bitten me. I went to finish my studies in Canada, then back to France where we moved to different places, then up to Tromsø, Norway. My dream of living in Norway had finally been realised… only to be crushed seven months later when the company I was working for as a software developer shut its doors. But at that time a new passion, photography, had emerged thanks to the crazy lights of polar latitudes. The end of a dream would become the beginning of another. I would travel further, longer, but this time with a purpose: photograph the wonderful world we live in.
Landscape and nature photography often follows a familiar path for a lot of photographers. Today’s busy world emphasises economic growth above all else in life and instils certain cultural values in most of us, albeit mostly without us knowing or taking stock. Through school, we are trained to focus on results – to “get good grades” and achievement is rewarded more than any other accomplishment. It is part of our culture for athletics, when we get our first jobs and in almost every aspect of our lives. This cultural undercurrent is a constant reminder that results are of critical importance in every pursuit in life.
This cultural undercurrent is a constant reminder that results are of critical importance in every pursuit in life.
This undercurrent often weighs heavily on us, often without us understanding what the root cause is, and we seek refuge from it through creative pursuit vis-à-vis photography and by escaping into nature for peace and solace. For some of us, that drive for results sneaks into our passion for nature and photography and we lose sight of why we escaped into nature, to begin with. That is the story of Alfredo Mora, the focus of today’s essay. Like me, Alfredo grew up hiking and spending time in nature and developed a strong bond with it throughout his years. Alfredo pursued a career in Information Technology as a Systems Architect for the United States Space Program, where the stakes are certainly high, and he found that his need for spending time in nature with his camera was a high priority. He relocated his family to Denver, Colorado so he could be closer to the mountains and amazing landscape photography opportunities. Then the pandemic happened, and Alfredo found himself reflecting on his photography and his motivations for spending time in the outdoors. Alfredo did not like what he found.
Winds of Change reflects on a difficult and uncertain time in Britain’s history and my own personal fears and anxiety about not only Britain’s future, but the future of the world and its effects on those close to me. The old world is dying, the one that we knew has gone. As echos of 1930s Europe engulf Asia and the United States, it has become clear that the balance of power and future of humanity has changed. Where Britain belongs in this new world is yet to be found.
After Britain’s exit from the European Union, many have wondered what Britain’s place in the world is, what it should be and what it could become? Whether you were Pro-Brexit or for Remain, Britain is a remarkably powerful and resilient country given its strength, economy and size, predominantly due to our relationship with the world's pre-emptive superpower, the United States.
However, diving deep enough and slicing through the aura of British strength, we can see Britain in a continuing state of decline, a country struggling to accept the magnitude of its fall from the days of the Empire.
However, diving deep enough and slicing through the aura of British strength, we can see Britain in a continuing state of decline, a country struggling to accept the magnitude of its fall from the days of the Empire.
Photography duo Jackie Ranken & Mike Langford are well-known for their symbiotic photographic projects that have resulted in many photographic exhibitions and books, have now produced a new book titled 'Scenes from the Lounge' where they both photographed the view from their lounge over a period of ten years while living in Queenstown New Zealand.
Right from day one of moving into this view with a house, we had it in our minds to make a book of it.
This fits with our philosophy of always thinking about the final product before taking the first step into a new project. Without this way of thinking the book would have lacked structure and direction and would have probably never been fully realised.
This very selective body of photographic work spans a period of ten years while living in Queenstown in the South Island of New Zealand.
Most of the photographs have been made from inside the lounge looking out, or just outside the lounge from one of the two balconies looking over the view of the tourist town of Queenstown, the magnificent Lake Wakatipu and the Remarkable Mountain range beyond.
It was the storms that got us most visually excited.
From the safety of the lounge we would watch them grow – then quickly leap out onto the balcony to fire off a few frames before getting soaked by rain or beaten by the wind – then retreat to the lounge once more, still watching and waiting in case some more magic light appeared. Not long after a storm had completely passed, we would start shooting again. This is the period of what we call ‘Quiet Light’, when everything becomes soft, gentle and dream-like and you are left feeling like life is about to start over again. There was always a little tingle of excitement that came then.
We loved it!
Some of these images were made early in the morning, but as we really like our late morning sleep ins, it was mostly in the evenings that we would set up our tripods and wait and watch. That’s when the light expressed itself most eloquently as our view was mainly to the south and southwest.
Most of these images are true to each of our thoughts and emotions at the time of making them and not reconsiderations during post production. However, when we first recorded one or two of them, we captured them as black and white in the JPEG capture – mainly because of the drama it added as stand-alone images. We still both like this effect when they are hung on the wall as art pieces. Jackie also likes to do in-camera multiple exposures that add to the visual excitement of what was happening in the scene.
When reinterpreting the collection for the book, we felt that the images needed to be connected to each other, showing the differences in the scenes and not the processing styles. As a result, we returned to the raw capture from the camera and processed them again in colour. We both felt that this makes the book more cohesive and adds power to it as a body of work.
We have written a brief description of what was happening at the time of photographing to support each image. Hopefully, it also tells you something about Queenstown and what it was like for us to live there.
The images featured here illustrate only some of the visual stories made from the lounge many of which are in the book. We both photographed the TSS Earnslaw at least two or three hundred times over the ten years. Picking which photograph to use for each subject was the most difficult part of the edit.
The requirement was for each image to tell a new story that added to the whole. Each one needing to be different enough to keep the visual story interesting and compelling.
Seasonal changes are very dramatic this far south with temperature changes from the thirties Celsius in summer to minus numbers in the winter. The temperatures are tempered somewhat by the adjacent Lake Wakatipu, the waters of which sit between eleven and thirteen degrees all year round due to its depth. Each season is also very distinctive with dramatic changes in colour and foliage.
Our friends tease us that the hardest part of the making of these images for us was having to put down our evening glasses of New Zealand wine to take the photographs.
So, this is it – the changing play of light over a decade in time, as seen from one room – during what was the happy story of our lives in Queenstown New Zealand".
Scenes from the Lounge book is available to buy on their website, NZ$30.00 plus postage.
The Images
Mike Langford
It is fitting that this first image is a six-frame panorama stitch of the scene from the lounge made on the day that we moved in. This visualizes the foundation for what follows and gives context to the story.
This photograph isn’t a usual way of seeing, as it shows everything at once, yet at the same time, it shows nothing specific at all. Most times we like to make images that are more singular in content, more specific about a single idea or vision so that when you look at each image you know exactly what it is saying.
Seasonal changes are very dramatic this far south with temperature changes from the thirties Celsius in summer to minus numbers in the winter. The temperatures are tempered somewhat by the adjacent Lake Wakatipu, the waters of which sit between eleven and thirteen degrees all year round due to its depth.
Jackie Ranken
As an opening image, this encapsulates the essence of what it felt like living with a view over Lake Wakatipu and the mountains beyond. Regardless of the weather or season, it was always breathtakingly beautiful The little dark speck on the lake to the left is the TSS Earnslaw making its way to Walter Peak Station on the other side of the lake from Queenstown. It gives a sense of scale to the vastness of the scene before us.
Jackie Ranken
Jackie Ranken
The long summer evenings regularly produced plays of light either on the mountains or over the lake in this case in the form of crepuscular rays over Walter Peak Station.
An in camera multiple exposure helps create a dream like vision of the TSS Earnslaw leaving Queenstown Bay and the mountains beyond
An in camera multiple exposure helps create a dream like vision of the TSS Earnslaw leaving Queenstown Bay and the mountains beyond.
Jackie Ranken
Jackie Ranken
Details of summer light caressing the mountains on the opposite side of the lake with the shoulder of Cecil Peak on the left and the top of Walter Peak on the right.
This storm came in from the north, which is behind us and in a direction, that we seldom get storms from. Even though we could smell the rain approaching, it suddenly just got dark and then it was there, coming over our shoulder like a heavy cloak of rain and darkness.
Mike Langford
Mike Langford
This storm came in from the north, which is behind us and in a direction, that we seldom get storms from. Even though we could smell the rain approaching, it suddenly just got dark and then it was there, coming over our shoulder like a heavy cloak of rain and darkness.
Mike Langford
This is one image that changed our thinking about the book. Originally it was captured in monochrome, as this made the crepuscular rays, as well the signature smoke from the TSS Earnslaw more dramatic. We now also like this version, as it also talks about the soft pastel light of autumn that adds a tranquility to the scene.
Mike Langford
Jackie Ranken
Skyscapes are huge and spectacular in the Wakatipu Basin. When you have lived in Queenstown for a while, you get to read and know what they mean, so you can prepare for what is going to happen next and sometimes what clothes to wear.
An early morning shot of a steaming Lake Wakatipu. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does it’s a spectacular and exciting sight. This phenomenon only occurs when the air temperature is dramatically cooler than the water temperature.
Mike Langford
An early morning shot of a steaming Lake Wakatipu. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does it’s a spectacular and exciting sight. This phenomenon only occurs when the air temperature is dramatically cooler than the water temperature.
Jackie Ranken
The view looking south on a winters day. This is the direction that very cold weather comes from. It comes up the lake from Kingston in a rush, turning the surface of the lake into a froth of white caps. The sky grows dark and ominous and the clouds feel menacing. Snow mostly comes from this direction, sometimes even in the summer months. It brings with it a sense of excitement!
Jackie Ranken
Spectacular gusts of wind from the west whip the surface of the lake into a visual frenzy, indicating that wind speeds are over 100 kilometres an hour. It’s sudden changes in conditions like this that make Lake Wakatipu such a dangerous lake for watercraft.
Another violent summer storm this time coming from the south. Adding to the spectacle is the contrasting tranquil shaft of warm light coming through from the west in the background.
Mike Langford
Another violent summer storm this time coming from the south. Adding to the spectacle is the contrasting tranquil shaft of warm light coming through from the west in the background.
Mike Langford
Summer north-westerly storms regularly come down the lake from Glenorchy and show their raw power best as they crash into the buttress known as Walter Peak, where they can curl back into themselves creating powerful graphic shapes in the clouds. On this occasion, there was a gap in the clouds further up the lake that let a shaft of light illuminate this phenomenon in an especially dramatic way. The low angle of the light is what has given the scene the warm and glowing colour that separates it out from the cooler colours beyond in the background.
Jackie Ranken
We couldn’t put together a book of images from the lounge without including a super saturated red sunset. We photographed many over the ten years and it was like each sunset was trying to outdo the previous one in its grandness.
Winter snowstorm blanketing the town and the valley. The snow seldom settles on the lake shore for long due to the moderating temperature of the lake which is only 300 meters above sea level and at 45 degrees latitude south.
Mike Langford
Winter snowstorm blanketing the town and the valley. The snow seldom settles on the lake shore for long due to the moderating temperature of the lake which is only 300 meters above sea level and at 45 degrees latitude south.
Mike Langford
The hazy tranquility of the change in season looking south down the lake towards Kingston in early summer.
Mike Langford
New Year's Eve from the balcony. Queenstown has always been a party town!
Some time ago I came to the conclusion that photographs, on the whole, have little to do with photography at all. They represent something else. The million and one photographic techniques, styles and genres all lead to the same place, they make commentary on the world, about life and about ourselves. It’s probably no revelation to any artist that photography, at least photography as an artwork, draws parallels with other arts such as music, painting, sculpture and even poetry. They all play to the heart in one way or another. Songs, paintings, photographs and poems are simply messengers, tapping on the same door.
Landscape photography for me, in my little world, isn’t so much about a place, although it can be at times. It comes as a result of pondering and exploration. A need to seek a space away from the built-up world, out with nature where experiences and thoughts roam free and morph into the unexpected. It’s a place where the poet walks in, occasionally at least.
I’ve wondered about poets. It seems they were a little more prominent in days gone by, before mass media, commercialism and screens took over all our minds. My Grandmother grew up in the nineteen thirties in regional Australia. While studying the paintings of Constable, she was asked to describe the colours and features in his painting, The Hay Wain, with little more than a black and white drawing in a textbook for reference. No wonder the poets still had their voice, their words able to permeate the page in perfect form.
My Grandmother grew up in the nineteen thirties in regional Australia. While studying the paintings of Constable, she was asked to describe the colours and features in his painting, The Hay Wain, with little more than a black and white drawing in a textbook for reference.
Eighty years on and my grandmother can still recite the flowing words of James Lister Cuthbertson’s poem, The Australian Sunrise among others. Despite her failing eyesight, the words have become a part of her, returning her to her childhood. Her experiences in nature re-lived and intertwined with Cuthbertson’s, as if shared heart to heart. It’s these glimpses of poetry throughout my life which have made me curious, what else is there to be discovered? Can landscape photography translate the same experiences of nature and life as these seemingly simple words?
The Australian Sunrise
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night
Waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie’s note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered and the honeysuckles stirred;
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bullrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow grey
And burnt with cloudy crimson at the dawning of the day.
If paints were never invented and if photographs did not exist, I suspect that more of us would still be writing poetry. Here’s what Georges Lafenestre had to say as he described the work of French landscape painter Paul Huet, who was influenced by Constable and whose works went on to inspire the impressionists. “It is when the artist-poet is alone, when he sinks into the woods, aimlessly, at random, in the thickets and coppices, that he feels best penetrated and revived by the diffused freshness of budding greenery and intertwined twigs, and by the quivers, splinters and caresses of light flowing through this rustling and fragrant congerie.” Such poetic words in themselves. I love how Lafenestre refers to Huet as an artist-poet, where his experience in nature becomes part of the artwork itself, it becomes poetry on canvas.
I’ve read some poetry myself, enough to get the gist and I can’t help thinking we come from the same frame of mind. My viewfinder may see the trees and the fields, but I aim to capture something else, something deeper. I may not be a poet with words, so perhaps I’m a photo-poet out in the landscape. Maybe that’s what landscape photographers are.
My viewfinder may see the trees and the fields, but I aim to capture something else, something deeper. I may not be a poet with words, so perhaps I’m a photo-poet out in the landscape. Maybe that’s what landscape photographers are.
Some of us at least.
You use words.
I use pictures.
We can both share nature.
There’s a well known poem by Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken, which wrenches my heartstrings every time. Frost inspired countless others with his poetry and was even acknowledged by the government of his day, with a tribute stating “…These poems have helped to guide American thought and humor and wisdom, setting forth to our minds a reliable representation of ourselves and of all men…” I for one, would like to see more of that today.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Frost’s poem doesn’t really seem to have an answer at first, it contradicts itself as the writer ponders a decision, inferred by a fork in the road in a yellow wood. The words are full of ambiguity and uncertainty, as we may feel in the same situation. What would I choose? Then, just as we are led from the visuals of a yellow wood to the decisions of life, the layers of meaning build on each other even further. The lines “I shall be telling this with a sigh…. Somewhere ages and ages hence” add yet another layer of depth. Perhaps they are a humbling commentary on human nature itself, which I’ll leave for you to ponder as the implications are so vast I can’t even begin to turn them into words. Besides, the poem will speak much more elegantly than I can.
Frost’s poem doesn’t really seem to have an answer at first, it contradicts itself as the writer ponders a decision, inferred by a fork in the road in a yellow wood. The words are full of ambiguity and uncertainty, as we may feel in the same situation.
When I wonder and ponder in the landscape, I may not have such a way with words, but I can see them in the trees and the grasses. Puzzles of life, of the heart, revealed in every direction. Beauty. Time. Family. Danger. But strangely, it’s not the camera or the photograph which captures life in a picture, we draw these connections ourselves. We need to feel them in order to capture them and make them known. Lifelong stories, curiosities and dilemmas which float around us everywhere, waiting for their time. With a careful touch of colour and tonality, flavoured to taste in just the right way, we can create our own visual poetry, which I’ll call “landscape poetography”. I wonder if it will catch on.
Now I’m no literary expert, English was my worst subject at school, but I would liken the structure of a poem to the composition of a photograph. The way words flow from one line to another is mimicked in the line, colour, tone and layout of a photograph. Deliberate changes can throw the reader off surprisingly or make them feel uneasy. Whatever is needed to support the underlying story. Words, colours or tones could all be used to make us comfortable or mixed appropriately to raise questions and ambiguity. Photographs and poems can both be metaphorical, drawing on the visuals but meaning something else. They can both reflect the human heart.
I would be more than happy to make poetry with my photographs, but let me twist that around for just a moment. Here’s a poem I wrote about the way I feel in nature, with a camera in my hand.
Natures voice
Nature sways with inspiration,
reflecting ourselves, she is our teacher.
She shares our struggles and changing moods,
soaks in, adapts;
the dew falls upon her.
A fiery day withers and creaks,
and into our soul directly she speaks.
After writing this piece, I decided to emerge from my cocoon to see if ‘poetography’ already exists somewhere out there. You might think I would do that first, but I feared my mind would be sucked into an abyss and these ponderings wouldn’t exist at all. It turns out there are already references to the term poetography and the concept is along the same lines, the same twisted turning lines of an old tree branch. So maybe it will catch on after all. Maybe we are already ‘landscape poetographers’ and we just don’t know it yet.
It's tough to pin down one landscape you want to write about.
My mind goes back to one of my favourite books, by Magnum, titled "Magnum landscapes".
I found it in a bookshop in 1998 even though I was broke I bought it, love at first sight. I realise that this book has deeply influenced me. I can almost see a little bit of my photography in every photograph in the book, inspiring me and moving me.
My images of people, my rendering of landscape, the way I look at colour, the way I look at light. Even some of the quotes in the book seem to be part of me and my ideas. There are photographs from all the greats of Magnum, even Martin Parr, who visited to share his work when I was an innocent art student in Surrey. This book inspired me to study photography as a postgraduate student with Paul Hill that year.
The luxury of having more time to prepare an interview with a photographer is that I can spend a bit of time trying to find any publications they’ve produced in order to get more background information. In Claude Fiddler’s case, I found two of his previous publications and managed to get them delivered quite quickly. You can read a bit more about the work behind these books in Claude's interview elsewhere in this issue.
The High Sierra. Wilderness of Light
The first is “The High Sierra, Wilderness of Light”. Although Claude’s High Sierra book “Inside the High Sierra” is published soon, if you want to sample some of his large format images of the area, you can get a copy of this book second hand for quite a reasonable price. It tells the story of a few of the early pioneers who explored the ranges and scaled the heights and who also told stories about what they found. After this narrative, there are a series of images from Claude, each of which includes an extract from one of these explorers. There are some beautiful images included and the reproduction is generally good for its age. I’ve included some of my favourite images in the extracts below.
A Vast and Ancient Wilderness. Images of the Great Basin
The second is a copy of “A Vast and Ancient Wilderness, Images of the Great Basin” which was produced in 1997 and is an overview of the vast area covering parts of Oregon, Utah and California and most of Nevada. It’s mostly seen as a ‘desert’ and the stories that are included in the first part of the book of the history of the hunters, trappers and early migrants certainly backs that up. Those migrants took a massive risk to find a new life on the West coast and later migrants gambled all on the chance to find gold in “them thar hills” (sorry - I couldn’t help myself). But, like most deserts, there are surprising places rich with life to be found. Claude’s photographs document the area well and although some of the reproduction looks a little dated, most of the photos show a strong aesthetic and obvious engagement with this difficult landscape.
Charlotte and I were lucky to spend a few weeks with Trym a few months before Covid broke out. Although we did visit the more ‘classic’ areas of Lofoten for a few days, most of our trip was spent being guided around Trym’s “local patch” at the base of the peninsula. The area is has a few ‘famous’ spots (Trollfjord for instance) but most of it is just off the beaten track Norway. And if anybody is well placed to produce a book like this, Trym is the person. I may be biased but from an outsider’s perspective, Trym has all the appearance of Norway’s national landscape photographer, a Scandinavian Joe Cornish with a nice line in Fjords perhaps. Unlike many professional landscape photographers, most of Trym’s well-known work has been produced in his own country and the vast majority of that in the North.
For an ‘off the beaten track’ backwater, it’s still the most consistently beautiful area I’ve ever visited. The book that Trym has produced is a personal take of the views on his doorstep. Yes, there are classically sublime views of Stetind, Norway’s national mountain, but that’s because you can see it from his kitchen window, I’d say that’s fairly local (although it’s a long way across Vestfjorden, admittedly). There are also intimate details of seaweed strewn beaches, simple landscapes of sand and snow.
The extra large format book is beautifully printed and builds a feeling of Trym’s home as you browse through it. By the end, I felt a strong pull to return to see Trym again. I can heartily recommend this book to anybody with an interest in the Scandinavian North. If you do buy a copy, don’t forget to tell Trym what you think of the book, with the amount of love he has put into this book, I’m sure he’ll appreciate some in return.
As Hans Strand says in his foreward, “Browsing through this book, over a glass of win or a cup of coffee, is something I feel every intelligent human being should indulge in”. Indeed!
You will never find yourself unless you quit preconceiving what you will be when you have found yourself.~ Robert Henri
I don’t photograph when teaching workshops. My temperament is such that I can’t produce meaningful work when other people are present when I can’t take a prolonged time to become mindful, to contemplate the nuances of my surroundings and my inner experience, and to consider creative possibilities. Certainly, I can make beautiful, successful photographs without these things, but such photographs would be meaningless and unsatisfying to me. As such, my favourite parts of leading photography workshop are times spent in the classroom, especially when conversations drift beyond the scripted material to more philosophical topics related to living and working as an artist. One such recent conversation was about the topic of success.
I don’t photograph when teaching workshops. My temperament is such that I can’t produce meaningful work when other people are present when I can’t take a prolonged time to become mindful, to contemplate the nuances of my surroundings and my inner experience, and to consider creative possibilities.
Discussions of success often revolve around how one defines the term. This time, however, the conversation started when one of the participants asked a different question: how do you know you have achieved success? Thinking about success in these terms—reflecting on past experiences rather than aiming for future accomplishments—proved revealing. My response (paraphrased from imperfect memory) was this: some days, especially when out in a remote natural place, revelling in peace and beauty, conscious of and grateful for my good fortune to be able to be where I am, to do what I do, feeling inspired, even awed, recognising that these are not fortuitous anecdotes but the theme to my everyday life—or even just the memory of such experiences—I feel I have succeeded.
Most people think about achieving success as a forward-looking progression: first, define what success is, then design a strategy to accomplish success, finally congratulate yourself if you have succeeded in what you set out to do (or wallow in self-recriminations and doubts about your self-worth if you haven’t). This strategy has never worked for me. Even in times when I set grandiose goals for myself and managed to achieve them, I didn’t experience the elation that most people expect to feel when achieving success. On the other hand, when reflecting on my life—the things I got to see and experience, the improbable and turbulent path I took to get where I am—I take pride not only in finding success but also in learning—by experimentation, by occasional failure, by coincidences and serendipity—what success means to me, which I could not have known until after I found it.
Recalling some job interviews I’ve had in former lives, I remember my difficulty answering such trite questions as “where would you like to be in 5 years?” Of course, at the time I made up a contrived answer having to do with professional aspirations: a feigned desire for more senior titles, greater responsibilities, higher pay. Still, as my mind was attempting to formulate this answer, I would also hear a voice within me answering inaudibly but earnestly, “I would like to earn my living doing something more interesting than working here,”.
Before becoming a professional, I imagined it to mean being able to spend as much of my time outdoors as I wanted, photographing almost any time I wanted to, having more time to pursue personal interests, and learning to make do with less income than I had in my former corporate career.
“I would like to spend more time outdoors,” “I would like to have more free time,” “I would like to be my own boss,” “I would like to decide each day how to best spend my time,” “I would like to learn more about science, philosophy, and art,” “I would like to live in a beautiful place, close to nature.” Although I could not have predicted it at the time, I have in fact succeeded in all these things. It took considerably longer than 5 years For much of that time, it never occurred to me that I may find this success by becoming an artist. For most of that time, I didn’t know what being an artist meant or would come to mean, for me.
Over the years, I have heard many accounts of professional photographers lamenting that the reality of their lives is very different from what they thought being a professional would be like. This has not been my experience. Before becoming a professional, I imagined it to mean being able to spend as much of my time outdoors as I wanted, photographing almost any time I wanted to, having more time to pursue personal interests, and learning to make do with less income than I had in my former corporate career. This is exactly what becoming a professional turned out to be for me. That may sound like a success story, but what I couldn’t know in advance is that this was just the first chapter.
What I couldn’t foresee when deciding to take the proverbial plunge into professional photography, was that these accomplishments in themselves would turn out to be means, and not ends—means for discovering greater ends than I knew, or could have known, are possible.
What I couldn’t foresee when deciding to take the proverbial plunge into professional photography, was that these accomplishments in themselves would turn out to be means, and not ends—means for discovering greater ends than I knew, or could have known, are possible.
What I couldn’t know was how living as an artist, spending more time outdoors, investing more time in experiences and in pursuit of personal interests, and making do with less income, would change me as a person.
My true measure of success as I consider it today, is not any goal I had set for myself in advance nor any anecdotal accomplishment I might list on a professional CV. My true measure of success is to live and to have lived, a considerable portion of my life as an artist, scholar, and explorer—the things I get to experience and to learn, the constant and oft-rewarded anticipation of greater knowledge and unforeseen discoveries, my joy in communing frequently with wild places and wild lives, my daily doses of inspiration, beauty, and creative challenges. All these things upon reflection have this in common: so long as I can sustain them, their value to me will not diminish one iota if nobody else even knows I have accomplished them. In the words of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “The deed is everything, the glory nothing.”
I believe many people set themselves up for disappointment by pursuing some form of glory—fame, wealth, prizes. If I had tried to define success in such terms before embarking on my artistic journey years ago, I likely would have been much poorer today if all I had managed to achieve was exactly what I set out to do. It’s no wonder that so many who achieve such preconceived notions of success, find themselves unsatisfied even if successful by their own prematurely decided definition.
Certainly, I find pride and satisfaction when learning that my work, writings, and experiences have been useful to others. I must concede that, although a wonderful bonus, this was never a goal I pursued explicitly. I mention this hoping it may allay whatever guilt or concern may plague those who feel it must be their priority to be of service, to fall in line with (or at least avoid upsetting) some tradition, or to bind themselves to other people’s notions of propriety.
Rather than hoping for glory by aiming for known goals, I believe that art can be more satisfying as a means of discovering things about yourself—the kind of person you are, the kind of things that bring you joy and satisfaction in accordance with your own personality and philosophy, learning what success means to you, if only to you alone.
Robert Henri was correct in observing, “Your only hope of satisfying others is in satisfying yourself.” This, of course, is not inevitable, but it is a likely consequence of leading by example: doing your best according to your own sensibilities, in whatever way suits your unique talents and temperament, within the opportunities available to you, and in doing so also helping others discover what may be satisfying to them, and demonstrating that it is not impossible.
Rather than hoping for glory by aiming for known goals, I believe that art can be more satisfying as a means of discovering things about yourself—the kind of person you are, the kind of things that bring you joy and satisfaction in accordance with your own personality and philosophy, learning what success means to you, if only to you alone. As jazz pianist Bill Evans noted, “through art you can be shown part of yourself you never knew existed.”
You may learn, as I have, that success measured by some form of glory—trophies, milestones, riches, or some other forms of “notches on your belt”—is much less satisfying, and much more ephemeral, than the rewards of everyday living according to your nature: doing what is interesting and meaningful to you, pursuing experiences, sensations, and contemplations for their own sake and not for any measurable outcome.
Using artificial light when it's dark lets photographers colour the landscape. This way, nature photography can be more open to the artists’ imagination and may give intriguing aesthetics.
One of the consequences of the lack of sunlight at night is that photographers focus their attention on the sky. Often when we hear about night photography of nature's landscape, we assume that it is some pictures in which the Moon or stars’ formations play the main role. So the landscape becomes a background or a kind of a frame for the sky. By using artificial light the situation changes 180 degrees. It is how architecture photography works after getting dark while many buildings are lit with street lamps or even dedicated spotlights. Preparing such lighting conditions in nature is probably not a good idea but incorporating smaller kinds of lighting equipment seems to be promising.
However, the above conclusion is only post rationalisation. To start the project called “Night”, I walked a path of fascination, inspiration and coincidence. I believe my fascination with the night came from two sources, both much older than my photography. The first one was animals’ activity from dusk to dawn so the reason connected directly with an interest in nature.
The second one was rather cultural as in the 90. I watched the “Twin Peaks” and “X files” series as well, as I was interested in cold war secret aircraft. So the night was a territory in my mind where spirituality, new technologies and wildlife met together. During my studies, I got SLR and DSLR cameras and I was looking around at famous photographers’ works, both representing classical and unconventional approaches to nature photography.
It is a bit unusual in landscape photography to build dramaturgy of a photograph by controlling the light, shadow and colour because in most cases landscape photographers rely on found conditions.
That was the moment when the inspiration came – I saw Michael Frye’s night shots of the American desert landscape (in general his photography is really worth watching!).
The key idea is to not only light up objects in the landscape but also to do it with colour filters, in other words – to colourise them. It is a bit unusual in landscape photography to build dramaturgy of a photograph by controlling the light, shadow and colour because in most cases landscape photographers rely on found conditions. Right away I felt I found a technique I could engage in and make long term use of. The sources of light that I decided to use were not anything unusual in photography – firstly a flash and a bit later a torch. But choosing the colour filters was the coincidence in all this story. Very shortly after starting my photography, I was looking for an opportunity to exchange views. That was how I met Tomasz Pućkowski who was older and had more experience in landscape photography than me. But his main job was stained glass making.
Stained glass has roots in ancient times, but its glory days were definitely in the Middle Ages when overpainted coloured glass was turning churches into more mystical places. During the secession, stained glass became popular in homes and public buildings and nature motifs, especially plants, became common.
Naturally, I do not carry a stained glass window to make a photograph, I just use small pieces of stained glass as filters instead of professional lighting filters
Naturally, I do not carry a stained glass window to make a photograph, I just use small pieces of stained glass as filters instead of professional lighting filters. At first, it was mainly an easy choice - I was given what I wanted to get while drinking damned fine coffee - but with time I made a decision to keep using stained glass pieces because of two reasons. Both are my subjective feelings and I have not done any comparisons with professional colour filters.
The first one is about what they are in my hand. The stained glass pieces, cut mostly from leftover glass and with no right angles, are far away from professional looking. Often the glass is not homogeneous. The pieces have different thicknesses. Feeling them in my hand creates less of a high tech feeling, like having an old fashion wooden steering wheel aboard a modern yacht. The second one is about what aesthetic effect they give and how they influence on taking photographs. The stained glass absorbs a lot of light so to get something illuminated enough it is necessary to engage the flash several times. It is pretty difficult to overdose lighting and it is possible to set shooting parameters on feel. One does not need to count everything, just opening a snapshot and walking around flashing from time to time. I think the colourised glass gives more austere colours to my photographs as well.
As colours play the main role in the “Night” project the firmament full of stars is not so important, sometimes even a dark blue empty sky is preferable – it becomes a flat homogeneous surface, blue or purple. This is why quite many photographs have been taken at the end of blue hour. The first subjects are rocks and trees, especially skeletal, wind-shaped trees and deciduous trees without leaves. Often colours given to them are cultural related. Connecting blue and red on a single frame can be interpreted as the warmth of the fire and the cold of the night. This motif has engaged people since prehistory. In general, the night is full of similar contrasts. Darkness drives us to sharpen our senses. The world seems calm, although the approaching night is mysterious and fearful. Violet and aquamarine recall the mood of night – calm and mysterious. Lighting up leaves with a green filter strengthens their natural colour taking them to a higher level of intensity. Also having both artificial and natural lighted green objects on the same frame delivers interesting variations within one colour range.
Connecting blue and red on a single frame can be interpreted as the warmth of the fire and the cold of the night. This motif has engaged people since prehistory.
One green is fresh and intense while the other looks soft and calm. A photograph from the “Night” project does not need to be night-looking. The idea could be to contrast a colourised object with very light, almost white, background. It is still night photography in an "after-sunset" meaning but the impression could be confusing as well as intriguing. Colourising natural objects in the night landscape also make us consider how other animals see their environment. It has been not my intention to try to imitate the sight of particular species but looking at the "Night” collection one can imagine a reflection of the natural world.
Claude Fiddler was interviewed on one of Matt Payne's f-stop podcasts and we thought it would be great to include him in On Landscape, especially regarding his book "Inside the High Sierra". Claude has is a photographer for whom the experience of being in the wilderness is paramount in order for him to create photographic works that resonate.
Mount Russell, Constitution Peak, Mount Whitney, and Mount Hale, Sierra Nevada,
Tell me about the photographers or artists that inspire you most.
Van Gogh for the colour in his paintings, his use of perspective, the geometries he creates and the movement of the geometries through the frame. Joel Meyerowitz for the use of one lens, the 250mm wide-field Ektar on the 8x10 Deardorff field camera. His seeing of light, scale, and the precision of elements placed in the frame. His variety of subject matter. Meyerowitz's book Cape Light was a revelation for me. Richard Misrach’s book Desert Cantos affected me in much the same as Cape Light. Steve Solinsky for his seeing the ordinary as extraordinary. Joseph Holmes for his landscape compositions and his perfection of craft from exposure to print. John Wawrzonek for his vision of New England.
What books stimulated your interest in photography and who drove you forward, directly or indirectly, as you developed?
Besides Cape Light and Desert Cantos, The Daybooks of Edward Weston and Weston’s seeing that could be directly attributed to Edward Weston influenced and amazed me at first. I was driven to find my voice. Something I could call my own.
Tell me about why you love landscape photography? A little background on what your first artistic passions were.
I love recording my amazement with the mountain landscape. I also, love/hate the challenge of making a perfect composition. I hate the technical aspects of photography but love it when I solve "the problem". My first artistic passion was recording my early experiences climbing and backpacking in the Sierra Nevada. I loved the alchemy of taking a picture, and then developing the film, making a print and recreating the experience. Absolutely nothing artistic. Purely mechanical snapshots. But that was the start. After seeing photos in climbing magazines, I recognised that a photo could resonate with an audience. It could communicate something. I became keenly aware of this looking at Ansel Adams photos. As being in the mountains took on more importance in my life, Adams’ photos communicated the emotions of being in the mountains. I wanted to make pictures that did the same.
For this issue, we’ve chosen to talk to U.S. based Huibo Hou. For many years she has been passionate about landscape photography despite her circumstances allowing little or no time for it. I suspect others would have given up or moved on to other things.
Huibo has a particular love of black and white which she feels gives her greater creative freedom. She does however work in colour and although we’ve only included a limited number of these images, I was impressed by their delicacy in contrast with her bolder and more graphic monochromatic images.
Huibo has progressed from a pre-conception of what images might be found to a more open and intuitive way of working which it can be argued has been accelerated by the travel restrictions associated with the pandemic, allowing a closer and more personal focus to develop.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what early interests you had, and what you went on to study and do for work?
I grew up in mainland China. I moved to the U.S. in 1995 to pursue my graduate degree in Electrical and Computer Engineering. Two years later I decided to drop out of my PhD program and moved to San Diego, California, to work for a wireless communication company as an engineer in mobile device chip design. After working for the same company for almost 21 years, I decided to take a long break. Now I am a full-time mom and a part-time landscape photographer.
How and when did you become interested in photography? Did anything, in particular, prompt you to become serious about it?
Yes, there was one particular trip that prompted me to seriously think about how I could take better pictures. In summer 1998, shortly after I moved to San Diego, my parents came to visit me from China. I took them on a road trip and proudly showed them the iconic places such as Yosemite, Grand Canyon etc. The scenery was obviously very impressive but most of my photos were not. They didn’t do justice to what we saw, and I was disappointed. At that time, naturally, I blamed everything on my point-and-shoot camera. After doing some research, I purchased my first SLR, hoping to improve the quality of my pictures.
A forest not far from my home in Berlin, Germany that I call “My Forest”. I go there several times a month and rarely see any people. Sometimes, a lonely dog walker or a jogger, but most of the time it’s just me and my tripod. And it’s only about 40 minutes by train from my home.
My Forest isn’t very big and isn’t exactly wild, meaning that sometimes you need to photoshop a traffic light or a road sign peeking behind the trees on a photo. Or you need to take some plastic wrapping out of the forest.
It consists mostly of mixed deciduous trees: birches, oaks, maples; and a few areas of pines. It has a couple of small and not so pretty ponds (which are, however, nice for a summer picnic). It also has an area with highland cows — super cute and fluffy — surrounded by beautiful, sparse birches. Be careful not to step into cow poo!
I rarely check the weather forecast because I don’t want to have any expectations of the weather and the conditions — I just go there to see what I can find.
I like to go to my forest around sunrise. I rarely check the weather forecast because I don’t want to have any expectations of the weather and the conditions — I just go there to see what I can find. This kind of routine approach makes it easier for me to wake up early and leave the comfort of my home, and avoid doubts like “maybe the conditions won’t be good today, maybe I should just brew another cup of coffee and read a book on the sofa with my dogs”.
I usually spend there two or three hours and find these moments of quietness and aloneness very rewarding. They give me time to disconnect from the city, from my work, and all the problems of existence. It gives me time to think, or even better, not to think.
Berlin is not the best place for moody landscapes. For example, we have dense fog probably just a couple of times a year. And if I was going out only when the conditions are promising, I’d have probably stayed at home all the time. So I just go. Most of the time, I end up shooting something. However, not every time do I have something worth keeping.
Anyway, even if there’s nothing to shoot, I enjoy the walk, nature, occasional encounters with wildlife, and of course, coffee. There’s nothing better than sitting on a fallen tree, chewing a semi-fresh croissant or even some homemade banana bread, and drinking hot coffee from a thermos.
I had many lucky mornings when I managed to catch great light or amazing conditions in my forest. However, one particular morning in winter 2020 is by far the best of all and the most memorable. I don’t think I’ve seen such incredible conditions anywhere in the past decade or so.
One particular morning in winter 2020 is by far the best of all and the most memorable. I don’t think I’ve seen such incredible conditions anywhere in the past decade or so
The following piece is adapted from my journal and was part of my first photography zine that I’ve published in the autumn of 2021. All following photos were made on that morning.
The sun promised by the weather forecast is nowhere to be seen. Instead, all the trees are sparkling with frost! It’s so strong — I’ve never seen anything like that in my five years in Berlin. The frost and a touch of fog are transforming a regular forest into a truly magical landscape.
A flash in the corner of my eye — a white deer’s bum behind the trees. Another deer is crossing a path right in front of me. I see six of them, and they aren’t running away until I try to come closer.
The fog is denser on a field — I can’t see the trees across the field. Shouting loudly, birds are flying above the horizon. Woodpecker’s knocking is echoing from the other side of the field. Another photographer is shooting a lone tree — the one I’ve tried to shoot so many times before, none successfully until today. Fog and frost are the best photographer’s friends!
I drink hot coffee, looking at a frozen pond, and eat a cold croissant I’ve bought at the train station. Two swans are flying over the pond. Birds are tweeting and jumping from branch to branch — I guess everyone is having breakfast in the forest. Only barely audible noises of the road and occasional dog walkers and joggers remind me that I’m still in the city — not in a magical forest.
I have to admit to being a big fan of Dan Baumbach’s work. His eye for a complex but elegant detail and commitment to working in small geographic areas have really paid dividends over the years. You can read more about Dan’s background and working methods in our featured photographer article from a few years ago.
Dan kindly sent me a copy of this self-published book a few weeks ago and I’ve been enjoying dipping into it now and again whilst having a coffee break. Dan has worked with Paul Jonathan Rowland to create a book that contrasts Haiku with photography. The Haiku are short ‘poems’ that conform to a rhythmic structure, a skeleton onto which words sit to evoke moods or feelings. They work exceptionally well set alongside Dan’s images which, although it sounds cliched to say so, have the feel of visual haiku themselves.
This is only a short book of 20 photographs but it is one which I really enjoyed. You can buy a copy directly from Dan’s website.
Joseph Holmes / Natural Light
I’m a bit late finding out about this book but I’m very happy I finally did as it’s a bit of a treasure. Joseph Holmes is an absolute guru as far as image quality, colour management and camera technology are concerned. But he’s also an excellent photographer and one of the only ones I know that fairly seamlessly migrated from large format to digital capture. This book was supposed to be the first and showcase release for “The Nature Company” and they seemed to have thrown a big budget at it. Sadly they stopped shortly after producing this. The quality is amazing and the reproduction is exquisite - although I would expect no less from Mr Holmes. The selection of images include some of Joseph’s best work of the time and many of my absolute favourites. There is a fantastic introduction by Barry Lopez, touching on themes of the environment (a cause which JH has long been vocal about) and referring to photographers such as Joseph with the fantastic title, “Historians of Light”. For ourselves, sitting looking for a book to buy nearly 40 years later, we stand a good chance of finding an absolute bargain. When I purchased my copy, I paid only £5 for it with free postage in the UK. There are a couple on Abebooks and Ebay at the moment for around £10 delivered. Snap them up!! If you can’t find one for these sorts of prices, I’d still recommend a purchase for four or five times the price. If they’re all gone as well - buy “Arctic Dreams” by Barry Lopez and read it while you wait for one to appear, you won’t regret it. Highly recommended!
When I was approached to write a piece for Endframe it didn’t take me long to decide upon my image selection, “Weed Against Sky, 1948" by Harry Callahan. The photograph is deceptively simple - an arrangement of black lines sitting comfortably on a white ground. It is not a descriptive image. There is no colour, no scale, no context. It is an image distilled to its minimum; sparse, cool and abstract. It challenges the viewer to engage with it.
In 2010 I attended an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. It had the title of “Abstract Expressionists New York: The Big Picture.” It was a comprehensive display of the art scene of New York in the 40s and 50s. The usual suspects were in attendance: Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Mark Rothko, to name just a few. To my surprise, among the large colourful canvases, I found a group of modestly-sized black and white photographs by a photographer with whom I was totally unfamiliar, Harry Callahan. The images were a shock to me, not just because they were there at all, but because his subject matter was my subject matter: weeds in snow, stones in the sand, reflections on the water. Things that most often go unnoticed in the larger landscape.
I felt an immediate sense of kinship with this unknown (to me) photographer.
I needed to explore and find out more about him.
I discovered that in the art world he is considered one of the most influential American photographers in the 20th century. He is credited with being the first photographer to make abstracts in nature. Between 1946 and 2020 his work was exhibited 51 times in that temple of modern art, MOMA. In 1978 he was the first photographer to represent the USA at the Venice Biennale. He was awarded the National Medal of Arts in 1996. And that is just an abbreviated list of his achievements. Why then is he not a household name?
Callahan was a late starter. He was 26 before he took his first photograph. He had no training in photography and was largely self-taught. He joined the Detroit Photographic Guild but found that their favoured genre, pictorial photography, accompanied by their dogmatic views on how it should be made, was not to his taste. He termed it “murky junk”.
However, it was at the Guild where he experienced his photographic epiphany. He attended a lecture and workshop given by Ansel Adams. Adams’ work exhilarated him; but it wasn’t the famed grand landscapes he found exciting, it was the less-appreciated images of grasses. Seeing those photographs freed Callahan. They gave him permission to photograph anything, anywhere. He decided, right then and there, that his life would be making fine art photography. In reality, as he soon discovered, there was no prospect of earning a living from his photography.
Adams’ work exhilarated him; but it wasn’t the famed grand landscapes he found exciting, it was the less-appreciated images of grasses. Seeing those photographs freed Callahan. They gave him permission to photograph anything, anywhere. He decided, right then and there, that his life would be making fine art photography.
When an offer of a teaching position at Chicago’s Institute of Art came his way, he accepted it, despite having no formal education in photography, or art, or teaching. To his surprise, he “took to” teaching and he spent the rest of his working life mentoring students there, and, subsequently, at the Rhode Island School of Design.
His good friend and colleague, Aaron Siskind, termed Callahan “a restless photographer’’. Fortunately, his income from teaching supported his family while allowing him to follow his own photographic path. He would photograph a subject until he felt he “got it right”, however long that took, be it hours or years. He would then move on to new subject matter, a new camera, or new experimental techniques. He returned to nature repeatedly throughout his career but also shot street, urban, and architectural photographs. His wife, Eleanor, was an unending source of inspiration. He photographed her almost daily for over 15 years.
Callahan was a pioneer in colour photography, shooting transparencies from as early as 1941. Unable to afford dye-transfer prints of his work at a teacher’s salary, the slides went into storage and were shown only after 30 years had passed. He shot in-camera multiple exposures and what would now be called Intentional Camera Movement. He explored ideas to their limit, performing hundreds of variations until he was satisfied. His perseverance resulted in an archive of over 100,000 negatives and 10,000 proof prints that was left in the care of the Centre for Creative
Photography at the University of Arizona when he died in 1999.
So, I had to wonder, given his accomplishments and innovations, why I wasn’t as familiar with his name as I ought to be.
Perhaps there are several reasons.
His portfolio is so diverse that he defies categorization. He actively avoided developing a style saying that when you did you were “sort of dead’ creatively. It’s not easy to recognize “a Callahan” in the wild.
His confidence in his art was rock solid, but as a person, he was shy in the public eye and spectacularly self-effacing. A somewhat dated 1981 interview with him, available on YouTube, provides ample confirmation of that. Self-promotion must have posed a significant challenge for him. He let his photographs speak for him.
Mostly, though, I think it is another factor that contributes to making his profile lower than it deserves to be. At the time he was photographing there was a large market for both social documentary images (think Life Magazine and its ilk) and the Grand Landscape. The work of the photographers in those genres was out there in the public eye, available to be seen and thus more likely to be recognized and talked about.
Callahan was a photographer of the intimate landscape, or as John Szarkowski, Director of Photography at MOMA, put it, his photographs “were the interior shape of his private experience”. At that time there simply wasn’t an appetite for that kind of photograph in the market.
Whatever and however Callahan photographed it was done with great authenticity. To Harry Callahan photography was life and his life was photography. In his own words, “I’m interested in revealing a subject in a new way to intensify it. A photo is able to capture a moment that people can’t always see. Wanting to see more makes you grow as a person and growing makes you want to show more of the life around you. I do believe strongly in photography and hope by following it intuitively, that when photographs are looked at, they will touch the spirit in people.”
Landscape and nature photography takes on many forms, from literal translations of moments of dramatic weather, incredible light, and grandiose views - to artistic interpretations of quieter, more contemplative scenes and photos that transform the literal into something imaginative. Additionally, I personally believe it to be possible for photographs to occupy all or none of these forms simultaneously; however, lately, I strongly find myself gravitating more towards work that can use literal form as a base while transmuting it into something requiring imagination, contemplation, and use of metaphor to create and appreciate.
To best describe how Richard creates such unique nature photography, imagine combining the analytical qualities of an architect with the artistic sensibilities of a painter.
It is no surprise then that I have found myself enjoying the work of photographer Richard Martin, whose photos are always engaging, thought-provoking, and unique. Richard is proof that literal forms of nature can be used artistically to express ideas, feelings, and emotions.
Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.~ Gandhi
While looking into artists who had dealt with mental health for the previous article, Art and Mental Health, a painter by the name of Pierre Auguste Renoir came up a time or two. His story is worth highlighting:
At the age of 51, Renoir began developing rheumatoid arthritis. Fifteen years later, in 1907, he moved to a farm close to the Mediterranean sea, where he continued to paint for the last twenty years of his life. While his arthritis severely limited his mobility, he largely ignored it the best he possibly could. He ended up developing progressive deformities in his hands, along with ankylosis - a stiffness of the joint - of his right shoulder, which ultimately forced him to modify his painting technique. And though he maintained his ability to grasp a brush, his assistant eventually had to place it within his hand, which was often bandaged as to prevent skin irritation.
Once you look down a macro lens, the world (and often your back) is never quite the same again. In my experience it’s a good option to explore if you want to move away from representational photography; so many possibilities open up. Jocelyn Horsfall grew up surrounded by photographers but like many of us was encouraged to pursue academic subjects. Ultimately her inherent love of nature and colour has closed the circle. Increasingly drawn towards minimalism and abstraction, she is now employing a variety of techniques in camera, during processing, and at print stage to distil the essence of her subjects.
Oriental Cherry Blossom
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to study and do?
I had an itinerant childhood as my father was in the army and we moved every 2-3 years. Apart from a wonderful stint out in Singapore when I was very young, experiencing a completely different culture, it was mainly around the UK. I think you become more adaptable and resilient dealing with that sense of impermanence, and a changing backdrop to life. I remember enjoying the exploring of new places, particularly around the Cotswolds and the beautiful scenery of the West coast of Scotland, but not all the new schools I had to face!
It can often seem like one season blurs into another. The individual distinctness of each one has, over the years, fallen away. Winters become milder and summers become changeable. However, once you get away from the rat race of faster cars, even faster phones and the daily pressures of work, the countryside still recognises each season and changes can be clearly seen.
Seasons start and finish at given times of the year. The Met office works on March, April and May for Spring, June, July and August for Summer. September, October, and November for Autumn and finally December, January, and February for winter. Astronomically seasons are based around the equinox and solstice Spring starts 21st March, Summer 21st June, Autumn 21st September and Winter 21st December.
Autumn
No season tells us its arrived in quite the style of Autumn. The heady days of summer are still fresh in our minds. BBQ’s, late nights and early mornings and the long hot days, that, normally, mark summer. Suddenly its gone! It’s getting dark at 7.30pm and getting light later and the early morning stagger to look out of the window becomes a little easier with more sleep. The car is now covered with heavy dew and the grass now soaks the feet, training shoes are out and boots back in.
Large Format Photography has led me to re-evaluate many aspects of my research of images. First of all my vision and the landscapes on which I focus. No doubt.
The transition from 4x5 format to 8x10 has further accelerated this growth, opening the doors to a new dimension of photography; from the study of the image through the large focusing screen, up to the print, and therefore a real and concrete image previously elaborated, inverted and imagined.
One of the landscapes that has been inspiring me for years is Lake Campotosto which is in the Gran Sasso National Park in Central Italy. I will never get tired of heading there just to visit it, confront myself with it and with my changes, or more resolutely go there and take new images
It is one of theApennine landscapes still capable of that feeling of non-contamination in its purest form, and where there is a wide choice of contexts, from its high rocky peaks (the surrounding mountains are the highest in the whole central Italy, with the colossus of Corno Grande or with the shocking geological conformations of Monte Corvo) to the dense forests of beeches and red maples, or the crystalline waters of high-altitude lakes.
I decided in a window of good weather between the Covid restrictions at the end of last winter, to plan a trip and to spend a few days alone in the places that represented the beginnings of my photographic research. This location inspires me more than ever in dealing with my Seneca 8x10 Camera. It boasts its year of production in 1927 and so its wood is almost a century old.
My intent is mainly to take a wide panorama from an elevated position overlooking Lake Campotosto. The lake is an artificial lake and if the weather conditions allow it, I planned to explore along the banks and track down some large boulders which exist because of its man made origin; it is, in fact, the second-largest artificial basin in Europe.
I arrive at the place where I will spend the first night. The beauty of the lake excites me as always but the temperatures were considerably lower than I expected. Never mind, I expect that during the next day, large cloudy banks will intensify right on the lake, which will add an intriguing element.
The first day I decide to hike in the mountains that surround me, so I head towards the Laga massif, to its south-facing point, which borders the Gran Sasso group. I realise how underrated these mountains are and how much they offer in terms of landscape and personal challenge. I am deeply satisfied: with the way the mountain responds positively to my enthusiasm for freedom and discovery. Besides the photographic features, where dedication and concentration are a primary part, I felt a physical need to approach the landscape on the emotional side.
On my way back, I know that all the work for which I am here has yet to come. I calmly observe the weather conditions. A strong wind has risen and, the lake's water ruffles and thick clouds from the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian coasts collide here. The scenario is more than favourable to the eyes of a photographer.
I realise how underrated these mountains are and how much they offer in terms of landscape and personal challenge. I am deeply satisfied: with the way the mountain responds positively to my enthusiasm for freedom and discovery.
I wander a bit in search of a view that reflects the image that I visualise mentally and that I would like to create. The Large Format and the 8x10 format, in particular, have taught me that the self confidence with the workflow and consequently of the ideas that contributes considerably to eliminating waste in terms of time and material. This time I have brought with me only two plates to be exposed, with the very intention of using only one. In short, a good training ground for acquiring precision in what you are doing, as well as acquiring spontaneous attention to the more or less suitable light conditions, especially in very changing situations such as the ones in this case.
I have a clear image of the photo that I would like to take, in which there is a well-defined foreground and in the background, there is a remarkable scenery of the beautiful and massive mountains still covered by snow. To do this I rely on a wide-angle lens; I found myself using it more and more, with great joy.
It is satisfying to have a lot of air in the frame, to give plenty of breath to the elements, and at the same time immersing myself in the context. I took with me a beautiful Schneider Kreuznach 210mm which in the 4x5 inch format would be equivalent to a 70mm medium telephoto but in the 8x10 format it is a 35mm! Not too distorting but wide enough to be able to realize what I imagine, great!
I walk a bit, quietly, completely alone, not only because I have no company but because Campotosto lake is isolated in this season. In fact, it isn't a tourist destination, given the cold and the altitude (over 1300 meters above sea level). In my opinion, it is a treasure to be kept carefully, which makes me live it with a feeling of affection, despite its austerity.
In fact, it isn't a tourist destination, given the cold and the altitude (over 1300 meters above sea level). In my opinion, it is a treasure to be kept carefully, which makes me live it with a feeling of affection, despite its austerity.
In order to find the right composition, I want to first understand the landscape, which is always very different from the way I keep it in my memories. Basically, this is the engine that always leads me to return to places I know, towards something that I can find in a new and unexpected way.
This time, moreover, there is the 8x10 Camera which I have already used in various contexts, including high mountain ridges. From now on I want to push its technical possibilities.
After considering the most harmonious lines and shapes among a set of rocks and having balanced the right weights on the frame I find an arrangement that is just right. The most complicated part is yet to arrive: focusing on the foreground and, at the same time, on the mountains in the background. In fact, my Camera, especially with these older wide-angle lenses, does not allow large movements like modern models and you can easily risk clipping or vignetting the edges of your frame. However, the image projected on the focusing screen inspires me a lot. I take great care with it without wasting precious time because I see that the orange-toned light of the sunset is rapidly losing intensity to make space for the night. It’s done, a few seconds and the image is exposed.
I don't know about the actual result, I have to wait to develop and then print the final image, essentially bringing it to life. Is fine tonight, though. I have the vital feeling of recognising the path I have chosen. Now it's time to return with the satisfaction and the beauty I have experienced and breathed once again.
I came to photography from an interest in art; indeed I bought my first digital camera as a kind of sketchbook, to record what I saw as references for future paintings. So when I stumbled upon the work of Franco Fontana, I was mesmerised. His vividly colourful abstract images of the Italian countryside reminded me of some great 20th century painters: Mark Rothko, Richard Diebenkorn, Piet Mondrian, Nicolas de Stael.
Here was something completely different from what I was used to seeing in landscape magazines or Instagram. There are no epic vistas, moody mountains, glowing sunsets or Big Stoppered rushing rivers.
Fontana, now 88, is little known in the UK, but his photographs are in major collections all over the world, including the V&A in London and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. He has published over seventy books and been widely exhibited in the world’s classiest galleries. He has also worked commercially with big brands such as Volkswagen, Versace, and Volvo, and his images have been featured on jazz album sleeves.
The Italian landscapes that caught my eye were shot during the 1970s and 1980s on 35mm transparency film, with a telephoto lens, underexposed slightly to saturate the colours. In a 2009 documentary (available on YouTube) he describes how he then photographed the slide with negative film, which had the effect of intensifying the colour and removing the shadows, giving the flat colour blocks that make his work so distinctive.
At the time, serious landscape photography was mostly in black and white, and in Britain usually had a documentary slant - Fay Godwin and James Ravilious are two examples who spring to mind. This lends a fine art feel because it is not how we actually see the world; stripped of familiar colour, it is already an interpretation using tone and graphic shapes. Colour at the time was considered too realistic, too amateur, too commercial. There were colour photographers in America who challenged that belief, such as Joel Meyerowitz and William Eggleston. However, their work was strongly rooted in time and place; with most of their images, you feel you could walk into the scene and become part of it. There is a narrative, storytelling aspect to them. Fontana’s images seem to transcend place and time; they are not of something, they are about creative vision. His landscapes are real places taken in real time, but they are not literal depictions of the scene. They are, like a modern painting, less about the subject than about the photographer’s response to the subject. He is quoted as saying: "Photography should not reproduce the visible; it should make the invisible visible”. Through his eye and mind, the landscape is transformed into something beyond what you or I might have seen had we been standing next to him.
The image here, just titled Puglia, 1978 (as is the whole series), could be said to break most of the composition rules to which landscape photographers today are often slaves to. The horizon line cuts across the centre of the image, breaking it into two halves. The two clouds (even, not odd numbers) and the distant hill are dead centre. There are no leading lines to take us into the picture, and there is no single focal point. The sky is blue, not dark and moody or inflamed with sunrise or sunset. There are no shadows to create form.
The horizon line cuts across the centre of the image, breaking it into two halves. The two clouds (even, not odd numbers) and the distant hill are dead centre. There are no leading lines to take us into the picture, and there is no single focal point.
He would have had to wait for the clouds to line up (no patch tool work here) and for the light to cast the distant sliver of hill into shadow. The yellow crop is in soft focus; did he use a slow shutter speed when a breeze was blowing or is the effect a result of the compression of a telephoto lens? I doubt he used a tripod - in the film mentioned above, he wanders with camera in hand, seizing the fleeting moment his eye catches something interesting.
The scenes for which he is famous, of Puglia and Basilicata in southern Italy, are probably unremarkable country scenes which most of us would drive through on our way to something more spectacular, only stopping to make an image if the weather conditions or light made them remarkable. The cultivated agricultural landscape is not dramatic, it is just rolling farmland, similar to what we might find in southern England. He was, he says, attracted to this area because of the wide open spaces, with few trees, telegraph wires or roads to break the rhythm. By focusing on the essential shapes and patterns of the fields, Fontana transforms them into something unique with his exceptional eye.
Today he uses a DSLR and Photoshop but, like many masters, he says the camera is just a tool, as the pen is to the writer. It’s what you do with it that counts: “The camera is simply the instrument that allows us to represent our thought.” This, he says, can be achieved with a camera phone, and he welcomes the new technologies which enable more people to express themselves. His other works are also worth looking at; his minimalist seascapes have the same central horizon and flat colour planes. He also has a great collection of geometric American urban landscapes, with shapes and bright colours flattened under a blue sky, and his series Asphalt cleverly observes the graphic lines which you see if you look down towards your feet on roads and pavements.
I think we can learn from him that great photographs don’t have to be of spectacular, iconic places. There are interesting images to be made all around us; we just have to look harder, and pursue what resonates with our own personality, curiosity, and imagination to find our own voice.
It’s the mind, not the camera, that creates a memorable and unique photograph.
Welcome to our 4x4 feature which is a set of four mini landscape photography portfolios submitted from our subscribers. Each portfolio consists of four images related in some way.
Submit Your 4x4 Portfolio
Interested in submitting your work? We're on the lookout for new portfolios for the next few issues, so please do get in touch!
I first got into landscape photography to record wild places I visit while backpacking. I have taken lots of pictures of the grand landscape with mountains, lakes, sunsets, or other big things visible. When I look at most of my pictures I see many of them just don't show the grandness that I observed and felt when the pictures where taken. So being the inquisitive person I am, I started aiming my camera at other things smaller things. Not that I have given up on the grand landscape.
Indeed most of my pictures continue to show larger vistas. But being the type of person that doesn't sit still well, I get outdoors in all sorts of weather. This includes cloudy grey days when the grand landscape is obscured in cloud. So these images were taken while on hikes in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, Northern California and Oregon. Two of the images were taken on (or near) the forest floor under a canopy of coastal redwood trees. And two of them were taken about a meter above ground as they were attached to growing bushes. While hiking I can frequently be found slightly off the trail kneeling or laying in the dirt as I find myself getting closer to something small close to the ground, usually in the form of a plant or fungi. Fungi are a critical part of our forest ecosystem. They slowly return the dead tree material to the earth, where the minerals can be used again by another generation of trees.
My son and daughter in law invited me to join them on holiday on Skye in October and subsequently invited my daughter as well telling her “you do realise that this trip will simply consist of taking dad from one photo location to another don’t you?”
I successfully convinced them we were simply visiting all the best bits, of these four images three were taken at or near the best bits but looking in the other direction or whilst travelling to/from those locations. It was a wet windy week but that brought both variety and opportunity that I really enjoyed and a variety in the sky above and I am very grateful for the invitation.
I live in the town of Rimouski in the Lower Saint-Lawrence region of the province of Québec in Canada. In the centre of town, at the foot of the hills, one finds a small park, called parc Lepage. It is a charming place, with few visitors, especially in winter. Light is often dim in some sections because of the canopy and the angle of the sun. I go there often with my snowshoes and end my stroll by the little stream that flows through the park. It comes from the hills and runs under buildings and roads until it enters the grounds through a large cement pipe.
From there, it gurgles and even giggles with joy until its freedom is once again robbed from it. There, it is made to disappear through another large city pipe, not to be seen again – not unlike the fate of a great many of us. The stream does not freeze over in winter and during its short musical journey in the open air, when the temperature is quite cold, it turns itself into a jewellery artisan by lapping the snow around rocks, branches and roots. Surprisingly, I never seem to see anyone else stop by to admire or photograph the delicate artefacts being sculpted right before our eyes by Dame Nature!
Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia is one of my favourite beaches. Mooloolaba derives from the aboriginal word mulu which means snapper fish or mulla which means red-bellied black snake.
At the time, I had just been introduced to ICM, so as an experiment I decided to see what interpretations I could get using ICM over the next couple of days. Most I have kept as is but one I have played around with the colours
I strive to undo my reactions to civilization’s syncopated demands and hope that inner peace, quiet, and lack of concern for specific results may enable a stance of gratitude and balance—a receptiveness that will allow the participation of grace. This meditative form of inaction has been my true realm of creative action.~ Paul Caponigro
On a recent winter hike, I arrived at the rocky summit of a small desert mountain—one not even impressive enough to merit its own name but that still afforded a grand view of a little-visited portion of the Mojave Desert. I’ve made the long drive here a couple of days earlier, feeling stressed and emotionally depleted, as much by recent personal setbacks as by the dispiriting effects of the long, cold winter.
On a recent winter hike, I arrived at the rocky summit of a small desert mountain—one not even impressive enough to merit its own name but that still afforded a grand view of a little-visited portion of the Mojave Desert..
The view before me was vast: undulating hills stained in beautiful pastel hues, stratified cliffs, endlessly branching alluvial washes, broad plains covered sparsely in desert brush and large boulders, all glowing in the low winter sun, stretching as far as I could see. With temperatures dropping below freezing each night, and no significant winds in the preceding days, the air was almost completely free of haze. Everything, from the small plants at my feet to the distant mesas on the horizon, appeared crisp and as detailed as my eyes could resolve. Far below me, I could hear a wild burro braying. I have seen him on occasion on each of the previous afternoons, arriving in the vicinity of my campsite just before sunset to bed among the creosote bushes.
I removed my pack, made myself comfortable and retrieved the lunch I prepared earlier, before leaving camp. It didn’t take long for a pair of curious ravens to approach. I watched them circling me, cawing on occasion, their gaze fixed on me, likely deciding if it would be worth waiting for my departure to see what morsels I may leave for them to feast on. Every few moments, one of the birds would flip upside down mid-air for no obvious reason other than just having fun.
Sweaty and huffing from my scramble, I removed my jacket and sat with my back against one of the larger rocks, savouring the pleasant mid-day warmth. After eating my sandwich and sipping some water, I scooted a bit to make myself more comfortable, closed my eyes and turned my face toward the sun. Suddenly I felt a familiar sensation as if I had woken up from a prolonged anxious dream that, up to that point, I did not realise was a dream. A great emotional burden I had carried with me in the prior weeks, suddenly ceased for no reason I could point to. At once, everything around me seemed more beautiful and peaceful—a familiar and welcome state I remembered vividly from prior occasions, but that I had not felt—or remembered I could feel—in a long time.
Admittedly, I am not one prone to flowery prose. Terms like “grace,” at least when used in certain contexts, often bring out the cynic in me. But perhaps this is as good a reason as any why someone like me—a philosophical materialist and obsessively analytic thinker—should attempt to reclaim, at least in part, the idea of grace in the name of fellow platitude-averse, soft-hearted curmudgeons who may likewise find value in it. There is a reason, after all, that despite our prickly exteriors, dry humour, and stoic attitudes, we still revere art and spend much of our time in pursuit of inspiration and beauty, and experiences such as I’ve had on that lonesome desert peak: moments of grace.
Suddenly I felt a familiar sensation as if I had woken up from a prolonged anxious dream that, up to that point, I did not realise was a dream. A great emotional burden I had carried with me in the prior weeks, suddenly ceased for no reason I could point to.
In photography, as in many other areas of life, many place great importance on productivity, often unbalanced by other forms of reward to be found in our experiences, in the pursuit of photographs, in striving to engage with the world in meaningful ways. These are common intuitions to many photographers: “I’ve invested time and effort; I’d better have something to show for it—a photograph, a piece of writing, a tangible artefact.” The more, or the more popular, products we create, the more we feel that time, labour, and expenses needed to produce these products, were justified and worthwhile.
This attitude, when it becomes innate and implicit, comes with the risk of becoming the dominant—or only—way we experience the world. We begin to measure the value of our experiences in terms of the quality or popularity of the photographs we make, sometimes not realising when the balance had tipped: when we begin to favour photographs to qualities, depth, and richness of experiences. Photographs become the only worthwhile outcome of any trip we make, the justification for money spent on expensive gadgets, the “proof” that we are “serious,” the indisputable evidence that we had not “wasted” our time. It is only when a moment of grace presents itself unexpectedly that we are reminded and become aware of how much poorer a life is that does not also reward in intangible, emotional, inner-directed ways. It is in such moments that we realise, jarringly and vividly, how much more ennobling and profound such feelings as gratitude, calmness, and freedom from distractions and anxieties are than any photograph or other material creation on its own can be.
Dictionaries define grace in terms like elegance, refinement, poise, and finesse—qualities that, at least in the realm of art, can be thought of as antithetical to qualities such as triteness, banality, dullness, and gaudiness. To be sure, the judgment of these qualities is primarily a matter of personal taste, for each of us to consider in our own work and life, by our own sensibilities. I mention them not as objective measures of artistic or photographic merit, but as things worth considering and striving for consciously, in the ways we experience and engage with the world, and in the ways we approach making photographs. In this sense, aspiring to feel and to express grace in our photographic work stands in contrast with some common attitudes toward photography, such as trophy-hunting, preconception, competition, imitation, or striving for no higher a goal than to just “get the shot.”
The experience I refer to as a moment of grace is perhaps best described as a jarring realisation of finding oneself unexpectedly in an unusually elevated state of being—a state where troubling and mundane considerations if they not entirely absent, seem of lesser importance and become easier to set aside in favour of worthier feelings, loftier ideas, deeper thoughts, more intensified emotions, and greater clarity of mind. A useful way to define such experiences is in contrast with some better-defined states, such as awe, sublimity, flow, and mindfulness.
Awe is commonly defined as the experience of profound reverence mixed with a sense of fear. Likewise, the sublime is characterised as an encounter with something astonishingly grand and at the same time mortally dangerous. Grace, on the other hand, while still possessing the same elements of encounter with great beauty and power, does not involve fear of dying, but rather the comfort and promise of deeper, richer livingness. I believe it is the feeling Dostoevsky referred to in The Possessed when he wrote, “There are seconds—they come five or six at a time—when you suddenly feel the presence of the eternal harmony perfectly attained . . . This feeling is clear and unmistakable; it’s as though you apprehend all nature and suddenly say, ‘Yes, that’s right.’”
Compared with other elevated states, like flow and mindfulness—which involve one’s attention being overwhelmingly consumed for a time when immersed in some prolonged experience—moments of grace make one acutely aware of the importance of a singular, present moment. Among the defining characteristics of a moment of grace is surprise: the sudden realisation of how long it had been since the last time one had felt such a moment; how much time was spent up to that point in lesser preoccupations, more tedious concerns, duller and less inspired feelings, more prosaic thoughts.
In a moment of grace, one does not necessarily feel compelled to any action—creative or other—but rather to appreciation, to satisfaction, to hope, and to acceptance. However, when a moment of grace does happen to coincide with a creative idea, it can rightly be considered a moment of inspiration—a moment when one not only feels grateful and elevated, but also is moved to express these feelings artistically, to render them in some aesthetic way by use of some medium, so that others may also share in, and be moved by them.
Another defining characteristic of a moment of grace, is a sense of immense gratitude for the reminder that there is more to life than mundane frustrations, more than anxiety, more than cynical wit, more than dissatisfaction with other people, more than discontentment with whatever petty or unfortunate events may unfolding in the world or in one’s life beyond the present moment, more than concern for producing some tangible artefact to “prove” to others that one had been working—gratitude for the affirmation that one is capable also of loftier, nobler, more exalted, and more beautiful feelings, and that these feelings are worthwhile in themselves even if no one other than you even knows you had experienced them.
A moment of grace is not necessarily a moment of creative epiphany. In a moment of grace, one does not necessarily feel compelled to any action—creative or other—but rather to appreciation, to satisfaction, to hope, and to acceptance. However, when a moment of grace does happen to coincide with a creative idea, it can rightly be considered a moment of inspiration—a moment when one not only feels grateful and elevated, but also is moved to express these feelings artistically, to render them in some aesthetic way by use of some medium, so that others may also share in, and be moved by them. I believe that one of photography’s greatest powers as a medium for expressive art comes to the fore exactly in such moments. Photography’s immediacy and availability to be employed with no elaborate preparations, and with little reliance on materials requiring specialised skills and conditions, narrows the gap between inspiration and expression more than any other artistic medium.
In a moment of inspiration, photography allows a creative artist, not only to visualise or to conceptualise a work of expressive art but to instantly engage in the production of it—to accomplish at least a considerable portion of it while still in the throes of grace, with the raw emotions still vivid and visceral, rather than recalled later from the few anecdotes one retains in one’s imperfect memory.
Beyond momentary rewards, states of grace also have a wonderful dynamic: they self-replicate. Every such experience shapes one’s attitude, making the mind more attuned and predisposed to seeking and striving for them.
There is no need to stretch a canvas, no need to mix pigments, no need to scribble words or musical notes, no need to hammer away for hours at a chunk of rock before it begins to resemble a finished piece. The work begins to take form immediately.
Of course, not all works of creative artistic expression ensue from moments of inspiration—from the fortuitous convergence of grace and creative epiphany. (Indeed, some notable artists have expressed outright disdain for the idea of inspiration as a necessary precursor to artistic expression.) With some exceptions, independent of any other merits (which may be impressive and important in their own right), and conceding this to be an entirely subjective judgment, I admit I generally find such works to be aptly characterised as graceless.
Beyond momentary rewards, states of grace also have a wonderful dynamic: they self-replicate. Every such experience shapes one’s attitude, making the mind more attuned and predisposed to seeking and striving for them. One becomes more sensitive to circumstances and nuances that may yield more such experiences. I think Minor White was describing this effect when he commented in an interview, “Watching the way the current moves a blade of grass—sometimes I’ve seen that happen and it has just turned me inside out.”
In 2019 Charlotte spoke to Amanda about her book ‘A Fluid Landscape’, which had just been published by Another Place Press. In it, she explored the changing landscape of the Somerset levels, an area which through human intervention had transitioned from sea to land and which in recent years after extensive and damaging management has begun to be returned to a richer landscape of water filled rhynes, damp fens, wet woodland, salt marsh and open water fringed with reed beds.
Since then, a second book ‘Garden Stories’ has been published by APP featuring images made around the gardens and outbuildings of an English country house which Amanda has described as a series of unintended or ‘accidental’ still-lives, seeking to make visible the unseen and often unsung work of the gardeners.
Over the past few years, Amanda has been working close to her own home near Stroud in Gloucestershire, UK, exploring landscapes that we have altered and left as a legacy. A lot of time can be spent looking for the ‘perfect’ landscape but we learn more from the imperfect and the ephemeral… a slow burn, rather than fast love - coming to know a place. There are so many quiet stories waiting to be told if we choose to listen. Ahead of two forthcoming exhibitions that will feature her work from Golden Valley, we catch up with Amanda.
You talked about your education in our previous interview, so perhaps we can open with a little about yourself – what interests you have and where you’ve currently come to rest?
I suppose my personal interests and my photographic concerns have a large area of overlap, which I imagine is not uncommon! I have always loved walking in the landscape, exploring on both a macro and micro level. This love of being outdoors and connecting to the landscape has extended into related areas of interest, conservation and re-wilding, flooding & flood management and habitat restoration, and the impact of this on the environment, flora and fauna. I also love cycling and living in a super hilly place as I do, I have just acquired an electric bike with paniers for carrying my camera bag! I love to work on my garden, especially the planning and planting. Connecting and collaborating with other artists and particularly those working in other mediums, such as painters and writers is something that I also enjoy
A gift of a camera at age 18 sparked your passion for photography. What were your early influences, and what do you remember of the images that you made? Has anything remained as a constant?
I think I always had an innate interest in picturing the landscape, especially those liminal places where land, water and sky merge and reflect, such as estuaries and marshes where there are levels and layers of light and reflections. The degree course I went on to study had a strong documentary bent and my work was very much influenced by this at the time and for many years later. In more recent years I have found my way back to following my heart and my interests, and to find my own voice with the subjects that fascinate me.
It is nearly 25 years ago now that I first switched to a medium format film camera from 35mm. That was to a Mamiya 6 with a 6x6 aspect ratio, which I embraced with some enthusiasm (undoubtedly influenced by the work of Fay Godwin, Michael Kenna and Charlie Waite). A few years later I got a good deal on a used Linhof Technorama 617s and started to explore the world of panoramic photography (initially influenced by the work of Colin Prior, and later Ken Duncan’s books Australia Wide and America Wide). The Linhof was taken on several trips with the Mamiya 6 (including through multiple security checks in the United States immediately after 9/11, but without any real problems apart from the long, long queues). I cannot remember now why I sold or traded the Linhof, but its loss was soon regretted and it was replaced by a Fuji 617 (the Linhof had already dramatically increased in second-hand value; the Fuji less so).
River Eden in Mono, Mallerstang
High Force, Teesdale
The point of this potted history is that over the period of time of using these film cameras I became very used to composing in the 1:1 and 6:17 formats. They were generally used for different purposes (1:1 often for more intimate landscape shots; 6:17 for the more extensive view). This then carried over to the digital era. One of the features I looked for in selecting a digital camera was the ability to show different aspect ratios in the viewfinder (such as an early purchase of a Fujifilm X10 for travel), particularly the 1:1 ratio. It is much more satisfying to see the crop in the viewfinder rather than impose it later in post-processing, even if working from RAW files that are saved at the full sensor size. Some manufacturers still do not do this (it has been a really good excuse not to have to think about buying a Leica for example). The 6:17 format has not often been supported, at least not until the appearance of the Fuji GFX series of cameras and then in the form 24:65, which was the aspect ratio of the Fuji TX-1/2 35mm cameras, also produced for Hasselblad as the XPan (all of which are now astonishingly expensive given the potential for electronic shutter failure1). 24:65 is not exactly 6:17, but then a 6:17 film negative was not exactly 6:17 either but rather 56:168 (just slightly wider than 24:65).
As some readers may or may not know, I originally come from the psychology and counselling field and so, I often see the world of photography and therefore, photographers, through that lens. Throughout my career as a therapist, and later as a manager of people and processes, I have consistently been reminded (often through my own mistakes) that relationships are foundational to our success as human beings and that effective two-way communication is a key tenet in establishing and maintaining those relationships.
One can say many things about social networks and the majority of them would likely not be positive. However, sometimes one of those rare moments happen, when we meet someone online, with whom we instantly share a connection. In this case, it happened on Instagram and with fellow tree enthusiast and creative photographer of metaphorical and metaphysical spaces: Gregor Radonjic.
Originally I was just interested in purchasing Gregor's photo book 'Drevesa' (Trees) because I enjoyed his work and it's also my favourite topic. This first contact has since turned into an enjoyable email conversation on photography, books and art in general, from which some topics have been taken up in my interview with Gregor.
9 From the series Trees
Alexandra: Can you explain a bit about your background? When, how and why did you start to practice photography?
Gregor: I started relatively late after I graduated from university. I was very much into music before I took on photography. But at some point, I started to observe certain interesting photogenic details on streets and outside urban areas and wanted to capture them. That was at the end of the 80s and it all began very simultaneously. I started completely analogue and I still have an equipped darkroom at my home. Soon after I took on photography, I joined the local photo club. That was long before the Internet and I learned a lot from experienced members. But the most important of all, I’ve practised for hours and hours, days and days in my darkroom. At that time, I used colour slide films a lot as well. I’m so grateful that I worked long enough with analogue techniques. That still helps me a lot with my digital approaches. When in front of the computer today, I’m thinking very similarly as I was thinking in my darkroom in a sense that I mostly use those manipulations that I’ve already used manually in the darkroom, except for some necessary colour interventions, of course.
Frost. It’s quite common throughout our land and most people hardly give it a thought – other than that it can be a nuisance to e.g. crop farmers, car drivers and mass transportation systems. Frost can damage crops, lead to slippery roads, iced-up power cables, seized railway points and signals. Even worse, ice forming on aircraft wings upsets their aerodynamics hence de-icing procedures in winter.
Yet frost is one of nature’s wonders requiring particular conditions of temperature and humidity, producing potentially beautiful miniature worlds. Variations in these two key parameters produce different types of frost, but basically, frost is just a cold version of dew requiring water vapour from the air to be deposited on much colder surfaces to form the tiny fragile ice crystals.
Yet frost is one of nature’s wonders requiring particular conditions of temperature and humidity, producing potentially beautiful miniature worlds. Variations in these two key parameters produce different types of frost, but basically, frost is just a cold version of dew requiring water vapour from the air to be deposited on much colder surfaces to form the tiny fragile ice crystals.
Here in the British Isles we most commonly see hoar frost which, from what I’ve gleaned around the Internet, is formed when water vapour from low humidity air at above 0˚C is deposited onto sub-0˚C surfaces. Less common is white frost which is formed from vapour in higher humidity air (90%) depositing onto surfaces at below -8˚C. Then there is advection frost formed by very cold wind flowing over cold surfaces. There are also window frost creating lovely patterns on glazed surfaces, black frost which is actually blackened frost-damaged vegetation and occasionally rime when ice forms from rain settling and immediately freezing on extremely cold surfaces.
It was several years ago that I first properly noticed frosted leaves on the ground, their edges, veins and stalks outlined by a sprinkling of fine white crystals. I made some close-up photos trying to bring out colour and textures and sinuous organic curves contrasting against the angular crystals. Shiny/leathery holly leaves picked up blue from the clear sky above adding to the feeling of a cold crisp morning. I enjoyed the session so much that I resolved to repeat the exercise each winter whenever conditions were right – which isn’t too often in my part of the world! However, even when the promised frost fails to materialise, being out in the early morning with only the occasional dog walker for company is a pleasure in itself and with my macro lens mounted on the camera, I can enjoy exploring the skeletal remains of leaves ravaged by harsh late autumn and wintry weather.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this has become a project, but it is a subject I actively look out for in the cold season when out for woodland walks. I do have the feeling that close-up photography that records nature’s details is perhaps more akin to documentary photography rather than creative art, after all, it is nature that creates the beauty we love to photograph.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this has become a project, but it is a subject I actively look out for in the cold season when out for woodland walks.
Arguably though, achieving a pleasing composition does require some creative selection and arrangement of what’s in front of the camera, while post-processing allows some gentle adjustments to shadows and highlights, to contrast and where appropriate a little enhanced colour separation. More recently I have been consciously looking for leafy subjects that work well together, aiming at small groups of 3-4 images with some commonality between them be it colour, tonal value, specific types of leaves etc. Here again, the photographer has to seek, find, select and arrange several images that together form something more than just 3-4 separate pictures.
This winter I’ve been struck by how muted the colours are compared to previous years. The intense blue I’ve seen previously seems to be greyer or missing altogether and there is more in the way of browns, oranges and yellows. This may be due to differences in light, the actual tree species that shed the leaves or maybe that the leaves have undergone more decay as the frost seems to have come a bit later this year.
Be that as it may, I tell myself that it’s a harmless pursuit allowing me to revel in nature’s details and enjoy being away from daily routines, losing myself in pursuit of beauty in miniature. On my last outing, a lady approached me as I looked intently at the ground around me, asking whether I had lost something. I almost replied “only my marbles” but thought better of it and said that I was photographing frost patterns for a science project. “Oh how lovely” she replied and wandered away. What she really thought will never be known…
So what are we looking for in a photograph? To be inspired, to want to rush to that location, to be hit between the eyes by something dynamic or to be stopped in our tracks or to swipe through images on the latest gadget giving them scant attention, a quick fix? Perhaps we would prefer to be transported to another place, then in wonder and awe a wave of calm overtakes us, we take a breath and we are transfixed, gently meditating on something that we can connect with on a deeper level, which holds our attention, an image that you want to look at time and again, or even put on your wall and live with?
In the early part of his photographic career, Paul Sanders worked in fashion and advertising before moving into the world of newspapers and eventually becoming picture editor of The Times. This incredibly stressful and demanding time of his life had a severe effect on both his physical and mental health. Out of the darkness, Paul found solace in the landscape, where he found a way to express himself by connecting with the natural world. Working in a mindful way allows Paul to create images in a calm and meditative way, truly connecting with his subject matter. Predominantly shooting in black and white, Paul embraces the landscape with a depth of emotional layering, and portrays an ethereal and subtle beauty, filling his images with both heart and soul.
This conversation between myself (Joe Cornish) and Tim Parkin was one where we hoped to explore the arrival of the drone in landscape photography and try to understand its impact. Tim is an occasional drone pilot, Joe has never even touched one. Our ruminations briefly explore the idea of aerial photography generally, and then quickly run into the impact of drones in their current role in the landscape, and especially in how they have become widely disseminated through photographic competitions. We draw no hard conclusions, but acknowledge that while they have many uses and represent an exciting new frontier in photography there are also drawbacks to consider. We chose to illustrate the article with "drone-like" photographs from both of us plus a couple of historic aerial photographs from the previous century.
Joe Cornish: Well, while drones are still relatively new to me, would it be fair to say that they have already revolutionised landscape photography?
Tim Parkin: Yes, probably. Previously there's been professional aerial photography from planes and helicopters, but the introduction of low-cost drones has definitely democratised aerial photography.
Earth From Above, Yann-Arthus Bertrand
Do you remember Yann-Artus Bertrand? He was one of the pioneers of aerial photography… many people will know his work. It was groundbreaking at the time, especially being shot on colour film.
JC: Do you remember Yann-Artus Bertrand? He was one of the pioneers of aerial photography… many people will know his work. It was groundbreaking at the time, especially being shot on colour film. The Earth from Above is a huge volume, and his most famous book; sold over 3 million copies worldwide, according to Wikipedia! It highlights the geography and beauty of the planet; you could argue these are the great purposes of landscape photography. Incidentally, it was all shot from helicopters and hot air balloons. And it probably would never have happened if UNESCO hadn’t sponsored it. Imagine the cost!
TP: Aerial photography has definitely been around for a while, have you seen that classic photograph of a biplane over Edinburgh castle? (Alfred Buckham) Just an extraordinary landscape photograph. That perspective is so surprising.
Alfred G. Buckham, Edinburgh, c1920
JC: The other kind of aerial photograph we might be familiar with are those made from hot air balloons, over Africa. The sort of pictures you might find in an article on the Masai Mara in the National Geographic, circa 1978, of elephants, acacia trees, camels, the wildebeest migration etc. Or a desert antelope walking along the ridge of a sand dune with long shadows. Balloons can be quite quiet when the burners are not running!
Talking to Alex Hartley it becomes clear that photography can be much more than just a two-dimensional representation. At first sight, you might be tempted to think that his images record that which he has encountered or seen, but that would fail to understand the nature of his work which is as much about sculpture as it is photography. His output is varied, though there are common threads that run through and above all a concern for the human condition and the planet. I’ve been particularly interested in what he says about photography being used to disseminate and ultimately measure the success of exhibitions; the blurring of the lines between exhibit and gallery; and how his works not only reintroduce 3D into their display but immerse the viewer in them.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, your early interests and education, and what that led you to do?
I grew up in commuter-belt suburban Surrey and moved to London as soon as I could. I didn’t particularly shine at school and art was the only thing that didn’t feel like a struggle. I spent a lot of time as a kid on my bike, in woods, killing time at the edges of suburbia. I went travelling in India and Nepal on my own at eighteen trying to work out what to do next. Growing up, there was no family relationship with the landscape, and it was only after I got a car and a tent in my twenties that I discovered a love of walking and hiking in the natural world beyond the city.
I went to Camberwell School of Arts in South London for foundation and continued there for a degree in sculpture. Trips and excursions out from London were quite formative, camping and making sculptures in the quarries on Portland, visiting Yorkshire Sculpture Park, and tentative hikes in the Cairngorms and Grampians. During the Foundation year, something clicked and I started to get properly excited about the freedom of art school and the possibilities of making. This was the nascent period of the YBA’s coming through Goldsmiths, characterised by a strong theoretical grounding and a collective support structure. Camberwell on the other hand felt like we were offered fantastic space and facilities and essentially left to get on with it. This largely suited me and I had a fantastic time, but it left a lot of catching up to do when I arrived at the Royal College for MA Sculpture where most of the other students had a more developed understanding of conceptual discourse, career direction and ambition.
Please note, This post discusses mental health issues.
Painting is no problem. The problem is what to do when you're not painting. ~ Jackson Pollock
At the age of 27, Vincent van Gogh penned a letter to his brother, Theo, which read: "My only anxiety is, how can I be of use in the world?" Ten years later, after creating a multitude of stunning paintings (including Starry Night), while in a mental hospital, he took his life.
Roughly three years later, Edvard Munch had a mental breakdown whilst walking with two of his friends along the road. He described the sky as suddenly turning into blood and feeling a sense of melancholy, quickly becoming dead tired. While his friends went on though, he stood still, "frightened with an open wound in [his] breast," Munch felt a "great scream pierce through nature." It was not long before he painted his most famous piece, The Scream.
Torridon is a well known area of North West Scotland that for many embodies what the Highlands are about. It is wild, rugged, quite remote and has stood from ancient times withstanding all that the Atlantic weather can throw at it. Standing on rock 2.6bn years old scattered with erratic boulders (a mere 750m years old) precariously balanced on tiny stones while yourself being pounded by wind and a mixture of rain, sleet and snow is very humbling. The pillows of gnarly gneiss are particularly tactile, almost visceral in the quality of the surface. A magical place with ever changing weather, magnificent trees and water of every flavour both on the ground and in the air.
Myself and a small group of friends have been visiting this area for the same week in January for the last 5 years with the exception of 2021 when Covid prevented us from travelling in what somewhat ironically was the best Winter for years. In 2022 we were able to return, staying in a new cottage on the shore of Upper Loch Torridon (abbreviated to ULT from now on) having been ‘moused’ out of our previous venue. This year the ‘four’ included Joe Cornish in addition to regulars myself, Jon Brock and Guy Aubertin.
In the event we had 4 days together in 3 quite different locations in very different weather!
Talking of the weather… visiting this part of Scotland at any time is a bit pot luck with what you get. Normally in January, you can expect snowy peaks and if unlucky polka dot snowy bottoms, rarely full coverage. This year has been a real exception as the peaks were almost completely snow free and temperatures hit 13c at one point. A NW flow peppered by heavy Wintery showers is probably the ideal and we enjoyed that on a first visit in 2017 but only had odd days in the intervening years. In 2022 we had a good forecast for the Thursday that we counted down to from early in the week so advanced planning was possible.
Figure 1 Photographers at Work
Torridon is a vast landscape stretching over many miles and has to be broken down into chunks to make any sense of it, also to maintain sanity as the travel times are long to anywhere other than just down the road. In previous years we had spent a lot of time in the pine woods around Shieldaig, the Kinlochewe road past Loch Clair and also down the Applecross road to the West (not the Bealach). Our accommodation location this year placed us close to the ‘Pass of Goats’ to Diabaig so our focus was the area on the North side of ULT and the peninsula beyond perhaps best known for grand lone boulder pictures by some well-known photographers.
Torridon is a vast landscape stretching over many miles and has to be broken down into chunks to make any sense of it, also to maintain sanity as the travel times are long to anywhere other than just down the road.
Figure 2 Weather Inbound
The week proved to be a great opportunity to compare and contrast output from 4 quite different photographers and to see how they tackled the challenges of the often difficult conditions in ULT.
Ben Shieldaig Woods
The forecast for our first day out together had us on a bit of a battleground between the high pressure that blanketed the UK and the fronts skirting round the top from the Atlantic. Being on the wrong side meant that we had almost constant light rain and periods of wind – actually good for woods. The three of us had spent quite a few wet days previously in the amazing Caledonian pinewoods that clothe the steep cliffs beneath Ben Shieldaig but Joe had not visited them before. With that in mind, the day’s agenda was now settled and with the weather we experienced it proved to be a good choice.
Figure 3 Typical Pine Forest in Ben Shieldaig
These woods were bought with a donation campaign some years ago, are well managed although deer numbers clearly remain high. I hope that they don’t become enclosed by the high prison style deer fence that seems to be spreading at a very fast pace across Scotland.
The terrain is very tough, wet underfoot and many knotted roots and grass clumps up near vertical cliffs. It is arranged like a wedding cake in a number or tiers. The top tier has large mature pines arranged like matchsticks together, quite a sight. Lower tiers are peppered with both living and skeleton trees with a preponderance of birch and smaller native pine towards the bottom. We spent time on each of the tiers working much of the way between the Applecross turning and the start of Loch Dughaill. Composition is more difficult the higher up you go as the opportunity to use the wall of trees and rock diminishes and shooting out or up/down the woods. Sky is typically not your friend here. My own view is that the location would suit a project rather than having an expectation of too many ‘hero’ images.
The Pictures
This picture from Jon looking over Shieldaig gives a pretty good feel for the woods and their environment. Looking into the weather gives a lovely recession down the rolling hills towards the West.
Figure 4 Shieldaig from Ben Shieldaig Forest (JB)
Figure 5 Woodland details (JB)
A woodland detail from Jon from the lower area of the woodland taken with a Cambo Actus and GFX100S. Jon used camera movements to get the spatial arrangement just right.
Figure 6 Twisted Pines (JC)
Joe solved the problems of difficult backgrounds by using a longer lens (85mm) on the Sony A7Riv. This is typical of the complex treescape of pines in the reserve.
One of the brief less rain interludes and a bit of light. The North/South orientation of the valley means that any breaks in the weather floods the trees with beautiful light and they just glow.
Figure 7 Ben Shieldaig Pines (GA)
One of the brief, rain-free interludes with a bit of light. The North/South orientation of the valley means that any breaks in the weather floods the trees with beautiful light and they just glow. Taken with a Contax 60mm lens from the film era on a mirex adapter and still one of the loveliest long normal lenses. Sony A7Riv.
Figure 8 Forest and Rain (DT)
At times during heavy rain there can be a period where perversely the light level rises and the foreground really glows. In this case the rain has veiled the somewhat distracting background and given the separation for this cameo woodland scene. Taken with Digitar 60mm lens on Arca Universalis and GFX100S.
The complexity of the woodland is quite daunting. This is from the 2nd tier looking into the light. Rain sweeping down the valley softens the hills with the lovely gesturing of the trees drawing through the image.
Figure 9 Looking South to Loch Dughaill (GA)
The complexity of the woodland is quite daunting. This is from the 2nd tier looking into the light. Rain sweeping down the valley softens the hills with the lovely gesturing of the trees drawing through the image.
Bealach na Gaoithe and beyond
The climb up from Torridon village along the coast passes through interesting but small pinewoods presently being intensively rescued from invasion by rhododendron and protected by extensive deer fencing. We spent some time up the Coire MhicNobaill later in the week as the light faded. The road climbs above Inveralligin to an area called Alligin Shuas. There is an extensive area punctuated by lochan and rock of broadly similar heights on both the East & West side of the road as it crosses the pass. Many erratic boulders litter the landscape mostly balanced on one edge by the tiniest stones or just held by friction on impossible rock slopes. The geology is utterly fascinating. Either side of the road is interesting but the lochans on the East are perhaps better known and more visited with a wide vista towards the South encompassing the full range of mountains; Beinn Damh and Beinn Shieldaig being the most prominent. A couple of boulders on the West side have made it into photographers folklore.
Figure 10 Photobombed
On this trip we focussed on the West side hoping to get down to the trig point on Creag an Fhraoich and exploring the buttresses that run down to the coast. As it happens we did not get that far because there was too much to explore in the area in between. Wednesday was a poor forecast with strong SW winds and mostly rain and Thursday the sought after NW flow with showers after a clearing cold front around dawn. Wednesday was scouting, Thursday was when we expected to get the light and conditions. As it turns out we managed to get good material on both days.
The Loch is a strong separation between the foreground and background and aside from that looking South from this vantage point into the Winter arc of the sun means that it gets very ‘hot’ as soon as any brightness comes through.
It is a stunning but difficult location to take pictures. There are a number of compositional puzzles to solve. The Loch is a strong separation between the foreground and background and aside from that looking South from this vantage point into the Winter arc of the sun means that it gets very ‘hot’ as soon as any brightness comes through. Typically composition compromises around closing the loch at each end have to be made by using foreground buttresses or other features as the distant closure can only be achieved by the use of a very wide angle lens and/or stitching. Connection and balance between the foreground and background are difficult to achieve.
The second area is how to use the foreground where there is a vast array of interesting erratics. Is it a picture of a boulder or stunning view or both and if so how do you connect them meaningfully? The Loch doesn’t help here because it is hard not to separate your boulder composition from the mountainscape with a large body of bright water. The view we reached, in the end, is that some of the small bodies of standing water were a better foreground than the boulders, perhaps best exemplified by Joe’s and Guy’s dawn pictures which successfully integrate the foreground and background although separated by many miles.
The Pictures
Figure 11 Perched (DT)
This was taken on the ‘scouting’ day in the rain. This erratic is perched unusually not on any little stones. The recession from the heavy rain is really important to the image, returning the next day with no rain and the composition was totally nondescript and of no interest. Taken on a GFX100s and the long end of 35-70mm zoom.
Figure 12 Into the weather (DT)
This was a remarkably difficult image to take and quite a testament to the quality of modern IBIS. Dave’s tripod was being blown off the ground in the near gale force winds. Clouds of rain were being blown up Beinn Damh onto the mountains with some lovely light behind. This is a another feature of the location where the light often really pours through from the South. GFX100S and 35-70mm zoom.
Figure 13 Erratic (JB)
In the discussion at the beginning I mentioned the compositional challenges of the location. The echoing shapes and careful processing has managed the pull through from the foreground boulder to Loch Damh and the dramatic sky just before a sheets of rain blocked the whole scene. Utter nightmare on an exposed ridge in gale and rain to set up a technical camera. Cambo Actus and 60mm Actar.
This was taken on the scouting day where the weather had better brightness than forecast at times. Checking out some of the other Lochan on the East side of the pass this was taken on one of the knolls above the road. .
Figure 14 Scouting above Pass of the Goats (JB)
This was taken on the scouting day where the weather had better brightness than forecast at times. Checking out some of the other Lochan on the East side of the pass this was taken on one of the knolls above the road. Cambo Actar, 35mm Pentax 645 and GFX100S.
Figure 15 Exploring Gaoithe (JC)
A last image from the scouting further working on how to deal with ULT and the foreground. Fantastic cloud swirled around Beinn Damh after one pulse of rain came through. Sony A7Riv.
Moving on to dawn the following day when the promised clear out should have happened just in time for some dawn light. A long day in the field followed!
Figure 16 Sunrise (JC)
Joe scouted this location the day before and tested the composition allowing him to dash straight here on arrival in the half light before dawn. The use of a ND filter to blur the sky has really helped with managing the hot spot from the rising sun and to smooth out the puddles. Taken on A7riv and Sigma 24mm lens.
Figure 17 Dawn towards Shieldaig (DT)
Taken slightly later than Joe’s picture when the sky had lit up much more strongly. Dave scouted this the day before and shows the challenges with the foreground. A really difficult choice between the wider landscape view and a tighter portrait of the LHS only. Arca Universalis with Pentax 645 35mm on GFX100S.
Figure 18 Blue Dawn (DT)
Alternative portrait taken with 60mm Digitar lens.
Guy and Dave were only metres apart and the almost 90 degree different orientation picks up the light and colour quite differently. Both Joe and Guy made really good use of the water based on observations made on the scouting day. The problem of what to do about ULT solved by eliminating it.
Figure 19 Dawn looking East towards Torridon (GA)
Taken with Contax 35mm PC lens on Sony A7Riv.
Figure 20 Distant Torridon (JC)
The warmth of the erratic nestling in the pocket of quartzite makes for a lovely foreground for the view down to ULT and the mountains beyond. Taken on Phase One IQ4 with 70mm lens.
Torridon House Estate
Torridon is a vast area to explore with opportunities around every corner to find good compositions. We had a couple of fill in sessions in the area around our accommodation which ran down to the beach in Inveralligin and in the woodland surrounding Torridon House.
Figure 21 Inveralligin Beach (JC)
The beach at the front of our accommodation was a cornucopia of small delights but this image from Joe caught some beautiful last light looking out towards Beinn Damh. Taken on Phase One IQ4 and 50mm lens.
Figure 22 Abhainn Alligin (JC)
Big Daddy. An amazing rock just dumped in the burn above the accommodation. Taken with Sigma 50mm F1.2 on A7Riv.
Figure 23 Towards Shieldaig (GA)
Some dramatic conditions and light as the Storm Malik started to make its presence felt. By this time we had water devils meandering up ULT and first sheets of rain coming in from the West. Batis 25mm on Sony A7riv.
The woodland surrounding Torridon House and the finger that extends up on the path alongside Mhic Nobuil has some lovely mixed woodland. This is being cleared out after being devastated by an invasion of rhododendron and is going to be a lovely location to work in the coming years.
Figure 24 Woodland (JC)
The woodland surrounding Torridon House and the finger that extends up on the path alongside Mhic Nobuil has some lovely mixed woodland. This is being cleared out after being devastated by an invasion of rhododendron and is going to be a lovely location to work in the coming years. Taken with Sigma 60mm lens on A7Riv.
Figure 25 Beach Detail (JB)
The grass surrounding the rocks on the beach has been sculpted by the extra high tides and made it look like they were in nests of grass. The soft blue end of daylight in the rain lends a lovely quality to the light in this composition from Jon. This was taken at the same time as JC image earlier of Inveralligin Beach using the same dusk light.
Figure 26 Dead Rhododendron & Pine (DT)
The consequence of killing the rhododendron that has overwhelmed much of the area around Torridon House. Sadly many are growing back from the base despite heavy use of targeted herbicide. Arca Universalis, 60mm Digitar and some tilt, GFX100S.
Figure 27 Woodland Study (JB)
Another composition from Jon using movement on the Cambo to loom the foreground boulder creating a study that reflects the feeling of ‘place’ in the woodland.
Epilogue
Figure 28 A very very wet camera and lens ! (DT,JC,GA,JB)
A really interesting and quite addictive week in Torridon. Although we did not get any of the Winter weather we hoped for the conditions were actually quite good for being out and taking pictures. Storm Malik really interfered with the journey home so we can be grateful that the conditions were not like that all week especially as Storm Carrie followed along 24hrs later. Booked for the same week next year with anticipation.
Figure 1 Photographers at Work
Figure 2 Weather Inbound
Figure 3 Typical Pine Forest in Ben Shieldaig
Figure 4 Shieldaig from Ben Shieldaig Forest (JB)
Figure 5 Woodland details (JB)
Figure 6 Twisted Pines (JC)
Figure 7 Ben Shieldaig Pines (GA)
Figure 8 Forest and Rain (DT)
Figure 9 Looking South to Loch Dughaill (GA)
Figure 10 Photobombed
Figure 11 Perched (DT)
Figure 12 Into the weather (DT)
Figure 13 Erratic (JB)
Figure 14 Scouting above Pass of the Goats (JB)
Figure 15 Exploring Gaoithe (JC)
Figure 16 Sunrise (JC)
Figure 17 Dawn towards Shieldaig (DT)
Figure 18 Blue Dawn (DT)
Figure 19 Dawn looking East towards Torridon (GA)
Figure 20 Distant Torridon (JC)
Figure 21 Inveralligin Beach (JC)
Figure 22 Abhainn Alligin (JC)
Figure 23 Towards Shieldaig (GA)
Figure 24 Woodland (JC)
Figure 25 Beach Detail (JB)
Figure 26 Dead Rhododendron & Pine (DT)
Figure 27 Woodland Study (JB)
Figure 28 A very very wet camera and lens ! (DT,JC,GA,JB)
Bang! I wake with a start. Bang-bang! I open the shutter to peer into the blackness of the countryside. Another and another – I shout in the hope of stopping the massacre.
A cold thought trembled through me. Earlier that morning I was sitting in a Berkshire field enjoying the warm sunshine, when a family of deer meandered out of the shady woodland, to graze on the nearby grassy wasteland. I must have been upwind as a mother and young fawn strolled just feet away, unaware as I crouched in the tall Fescue blades of grass, transfixed amazement.
The next morning revealed evidence that the entire herd had been wiped out, 12 deer, the only herd in the district. This deeply affected me – my first question as I awoke “What right does a human have, to say whether or not another living species has a right to live?” The contradictions about overpopulation and why is it we look at every other species to blame but ourselves.
I have taken a strange road into photography, yet it has always been part of my life. I am not talking about happy snappies, but the actual pleasure of picking up a big DSLR and making fine art images.
My true vocation started after a depressingly ignored milestone birthday; I stormed off and discovered large format cameras for sale along London's Tottenham Court Road. Later I introduced my new camera to a friend, who responded by showing me his latest panoramas he had been working on. This new style of photography completely captivated me... and that was the beginning of my new world into photography.
The artist in my photography
You could say I am quite an eclectic photographic artist – I really like pushing myself hard into the different areas that photography offers.
You could say I am quite an eclectic photographic artist – I really like pushing myself hard into the different areas that photography offers.
My early work explored the possibilities of panoramas, which evolved into highly complex composites. These artworks really tested all my knowledge for shooting, as some pieces used as many as five separate shoots e.g. Studio light portrait, individual prop shoots through to many landscapes around the country. That’s how I learnt my camera skills making sure to match the time of day with sunlight angles, fix the right ISO and all manual settings.
Concerning equipment, I am glad to say that all of my gear is almost vintage and second-hand. Apart from being careful of waste, photography is an expensive pastime, and walking into a camera shop and seeing new powerful cameras with big price tags may be very off-putting. So first I go to a friend who is a professional photographer and ask for a certain piece of equipment to borrow. If the kit appeals to me and aids in the production of a new style of photo that I've imagined, I go to a second-hand website and search for a comparable model. It's a lot of fun and gives me a lot of options.
Choosing the subjects and themes in the book
In my childhood, my favourite subject was biology - mainly due to having a very understanding teacher. I loved dissecting plants then peering through a microscope and drawing their intricate capillaries. This childhood experience has in some way influenced my excitement for discovering the little things I find in nature. Another aspect is that during lockdown we all were discouraged from travelling around. This meant I needed to think laterally about the subjects that I could access and become enthusiastic about. The process of finding the subjects that matched my interests was gradual, starting with conceptualised pieces such as the feathers. This idea is based on how plastic (now a bit of a cliché) interferes with nature. I formulated the sets based on layering with class and translucent plastic then allowed natural sunlight to play on the feathers. However it was too strong so I opted for the diffusion of overcast weather and then used long exposures to get the ethereal effect, mixing feather detail with others having a misty quality to signify different ideas such as disappearing species.
The subjects I chose were ones that could connect to make a curated and undulating journey from the beautiful (could I say traditional forms of nature photography), entertaining through to the unpleasant issue of rubbish accumulation.
The book begins with a series of close-up images designed to look like miniature worlds, reflecting the microcosm of interacting ecology that exists all around us; a bit like following in the footsteps of Darwin – “in the beginning there was the….” I wanted to draw the reader into an ‘observational’ frame of mind and show how bewitching the simplest thing can be if we just take the time to look.
The book begins with a series of close-up images designed to look like miniature worlds, reflecting the microcosm of interacting ecology that exists all around us
The second transition for subject matter looks at the importance of trees. For me this is a pretty emotional subject because in both the city and countryside I see authorities and landowners tear up mature trees as if they are ‘sustainable’, which trees aren’t really - it takes 100 to 150 Years for a tree to get to a point where it can become an effective ‘carbon sink’, an important point that really needs a great deal more publicity around. My set of images for this section opens with a large composite of a mature oak tree changing into its autumnal cloak of gold (if the image was enlarged to its true size it would measure 1.5 meters, from which you can see every leaf in glorious detail). The following images counteract the complacency of attractive images with the shocking destruction of a mature tree in a forest, where the tree’s soul is ripped out of all existence – there should be no excuse for such an act – the tree was healthy, providing a complex ecosystem as well as effectively scrubbing poisonous carbon from the atmosphere.
It is only recently discovered that untouched woods in Poland, have very wide biodiversity – and that diverse richness when left untouched has a way of regenerating degraded land nearby; a very important lesson that is being learnt by scientists – because take one microorganism out of the equation and the system no longer has the right combination of tools to recover. I am thinking about expanding my thoughts towards making a second book that looks into this new and exciting science. Because this section was so intense, I wanted to lighten the mood with something amusing, thus the switch to anthropomorphism. It was a lot of fun making figures out of garden weeds and combining them with an amusing quote from Lawrence Anthony to create an upbeat mood change.
This ebbing flow of information from passive to acidic can be found throughout the book. I believe it is critical; otherwise, I suspect it is difficult to digest when subjects are all one onslaught of shocking information.
Collaborating with Contributors
Since I don’t have an expert naturist background even though I have a great love for it, I felt it was extremely important to not make the book about my opinions but to give it a wider authoritative context in the narrative. This could only come from professionals in nature and conservation. As I worked up each chapter and subject I spent many hours reading papers and studies, after which I wrote off to many researchers and scientists in their corresponding field of interest. It took a while but by the end, I had eight senior specialists who gave me articles to include.
Using my emotions to express a point in photography
Since lockdown prevented travel, I decided to camp in my dad’s apple orchard for most of last year’s summer. It was here, that I became aware of how a city-dweller’s view of the countryside, differs from a local farmer’s.
In the city, there is so little wildlife that the little we do see, we treasure the moment it comes into view. The farm people I came into contact with see fields as a job to be done – they flay the hedgerows, mow flowering footpaths, shoot rabbits, deer and buzzards. For me, the intense destruction was overwhelming.
We lift our cameras and see the incredible variety that inspires us. For me I really enjoyed what the British countryside has to offer, even the mundane, as it changes my mindset into hyper awareness… spotting the contrasts across shadows or beads of sunlight that highlight in exceptional detail of small dark things hidden in woodland, making the ordinary become beautiful.
The funny thing about nature is we take it all for granted – ‘It will always be there – it will grow back’. We lift our cameras and see the incredible variety that inspires us. For me I really enjoyed what the British countryside has to offer, even the mundane, as it changes my mindset into hyper awareness… spotting the contrasts across shadows or beads of sunlight that highlight in exceptional detail of small dark things hidden in woodland, making the ordinary become beautiful.
This difference between the farmers and myself became a catalyst for collating 6 years of material I had built up, which gave me the determination to portray the delicate elements I found on my walks, showing their intricate fragility. But most of all I wanted to highlight through my work a change of mindset – focusing closer to the fact that humans need to allow nature to exist making room to perform its miraculous duties.
Only as the project progressed did my solitary fears about nature's plight show themselves to be a far larger concern. I realised I was living in romantic illusions, believing that everything was fine and that difficulties only existed in faraway places like Africa or the Amazon. Following some investigation, I started posing acidic and seemingly nonsensical questions to aid my photography;
How many people would it take to keep a tree alive until it reached a maturity of 100 years?
With the growing human population versus deforestation, would we run out of oxygen?
Can something be done to change a mindset of disposable?
I believed it was vital to clarify my ideas with the support of prominent scientists, environmentalists, and nature specialists, asking them about some of the themes I wanted to discuss, after creating the original artworks for the book.
The artistic influences are the result of an extensive investigation into the subject. I enjoy starting off with no knowledge at all because it allows me to connect with my readers and experience the new information through their eyes... As a result, I'll have to offer a subject in chronological order and in an understandable manner. The experts I meet keep me on track and precise on each point, advising me on how to emphasise or identify each message. It's critical that when learning new things, you don't rely on hearsay or assumptions. It gets very messy!
Could there be a different way of perceiving nature?
Nature photography, I believe, is one of the most popular areas in photography, with notable black and white photographers such as Ansel Adams, Fay Godwin, and John Sexton enriching our images of the landscape. Lucie Averill, Charlie Waite, and David Noton, for example, travelled the world to provide us with stunning enriched sunsets.
Rather than emulating these incredible artists, I choose to admire them since I felt I’d be depreciating their genius and originality if my work mirrored theirs. Also, I'd never be able to do justice to my own unique thoughts and photographic style.
In many ways, once I had come to terms with not needing to follow in their footsteps was very freeing, it meant I could experiment un-inhibited and discover where I could fit in with expressing my way of interpreting the vision or how I would push my signature style, enabling me to develop captivating photographs of mundane elements, without them becoming a cliché.
This, I believe, is my basic idea on how to structure a subject in a unique way. Being original and thinking without creative influences is essential to me. I despised it when lecturers would come up to me and suggest things like, 'You should do this – or- look at how good so-and-so designs are.' Yes, these remarks made me quite the rebel! Perhaps my obsession to be unique stems from my training as a graphic designer, when designs were only sold if they were original. This is an excellent discipline for continuing to develop ideas and moving one's thoughts forward rather than relying on trends to guide your style.
Yes, it has negatives as well! – Having doubts regarding the outcome of the handiwork being the right way to portray a message. Ideas and creative influences come from the research into the subject. This leads me to conceptualise about how I am going to explain the subject or story, where the emphasis needs to be, or what’s the best technique to help get the message across.
When it comes to interpreting thoughts. Traditions and tried-and-tested formulas, I believe is important to let go and trust yourself. Ideas are self-contained by their very nature, as everyone has an independent opinion on a subject. However, as a photographer describing a subject, it is more valuable to create work that does not compromise the truthfulness of a situation.
I think this extract is very helpful to understanding about perceptions in image making;
Perceptions shape the interpretation of information when it enters a social system from an ecosystem, and perceptions shape the decision-making process that leads to actions affecting the ecosystem. While every perception has a basis in reality, some perceptions of nature are more useful because they embrace reality more completely or accurately.~ Gerald G. Marten
When it comes to interpreting thoughts. Traditions and tried-and-tested formulas, I believe is important to let go and trust yourself. Ideas are self-contained by their very nature, as everyone has an independent opinion on a subject. However, as a photographer describing a subject, it is more valuable to create work that does not compromise the truthfulness of a situation. Purity is especially vital when dealing with a delicate subject like nature in close proximity since the reality of truth must exude in order to distil an emotion or mindfulness from the reader.
My work as an artist photographer
I like to call myself a photographic artist rather than an art photographer, as there is a quite big difference between the two. A photographic artist uses the camera much like a paintbrush. Sometimes it’s about shutter dragging but for me, it’s about making composites; each photo is an accurate facsimile of the subject – it is merely a jigsaw piece to a bigger puzzle or vision.
For this project, and for the first time I decided to capture single shots and experiment with different lenses for the first time - yes, I had to overcome my fear of the unknown. However, it allowed me to experiment with new ways of expressing my feelings and create artworks with a clear meaning that could change throughout the book. (By the way, when I say artworks, I'm referring to images, some of which are composites that have been prepared for publication.)
As an experimental photo artist, I felt it was critical to avoid traditional documentary or heightened landscape photography. The voyage heightened my awareness of the image, with some images serving as metaphors to depict the journey.
Nature is an incredibly big subject, so as the project took shape it became clear that through artistic interpretation, there was a need to reveal a narrative – a gentle curation exploring the curious and rich depth of each small subject.
To show life as it actually is, not as we might imagine or desire it to be
Covid's lockdown helped in many ways because I couldn't travel anywhere – all I had to photograph was what was around me. This is a great experience to increase one’s awareness without distractions. During my camping trip, I became a bit of a recluse, removing myself from all human interaction and technology (save the camera and hard drive) so I could focus totally on the task at hand.
I'd spend days ambling over the Ridgeway's woodlands and hedgerows, just gazing and gathering odd items that struck my eye — a skull, a severed limb intact with seeds, or upside down bugs who'd perished in the search of love. The next day, I'd play about with my freshly discovered treasures, watching their shapes change in the midday sun. Textures, translucency, and reflections within reflections would arise, each providing a unique perspective and ‘what-if' scenario. I put them on glass, plastic, and even poured syrup over them. I sprayed, splattered, and hosed until something wonderful happened inside of me!
During the experimental stage, I discovered myself and a new way of understanding the results – it wasn't what was covered, but what wasn't covered that gave me insights into the truth messages — the magic demonstrated that I could develop a metaphor language from what was left untouched. Once I had built the backbone of image style, I worked on complementary landscape photographs that might expand the context and push the story farther to cover the environment, where the small things existed.
Another reason for the style of images not to become stuck in one formula is that a book must be enjoyable before it can be educational; otherwise, people will not want to turn the page. Every page must be exciting – a new experience or bring a sense of adventure. Once that has been achieved the supporting narrative can offer something a bit different – unknown and interesting. That’s where the mountains of research and introductions to specialists are so important in the early stages.
Influences that inspired the making of the book
This quote was written by one of the contributors, it was very influential in helping me chose the right material for the book:
Our human appreciation of the natural world and its processes has been diminished during recorded human
~ Dr Alan Rayner
In the back of my mind, I noticed that today's city generations are completely engrossed in personal technology. People walking with their heads buried deep in their phones, implying they haven't experienced anything of their journey or seen the green treasures along the road. The goal of the book is to show both the distilled essences of nature and to deliver it to people directly. Demonstrating that our natural flora and fauna are one-of-a-kind gems that require people's active engagement with.
The subjects I chose were the closest I could get to something that everyone could find. That way, I could show off their beauty whilst raising awareness. We all see wasps, but how many of us notice the graphic stripes and how distinct each pattern is? We all see spider webs, but can we see how each one is unique and how they catch dew-drops? Or, if one looks through a grove of beech trees crowning a hill, can one see the golden fields behind them and how the moody grey clouds complement the corn?
The book's layout was meticulously planned to provide a balanced speed and undulations between themes. The book begins with a series of familiar but artistic images depicting a variety of things we take for granted, then progresses along the sensitive scale of awareness to the first cruel act of people tearing the heart and life out of a tree. The language moves from debate points to entertaining tales, with pauses to slow down the pace before returning to a highly charged, thought-provoking subject.
As the book draws to a close, the focus shifts to disposable rubbish from the home. It's all too easy to throw anything away, but there isn’t enough imagery to convey the magnitude of the waste problem, or pictures to show that simple packaging doesn’t biodegrade as quickly as one imagines.
I have watched pedestrians toss absent-mindedly a tin can or plastic snack packet into the side of the grassy path - when asked what will happen to it – they just say – “don’t worry it will degrade, nature will take care if it!” So I included images to demonstrate that waste doesn’t dissolve when it is thrown into vegetation – it just stays there, never truly deteriorating.
I will feel fulfilled if my book has improved a sympathetic mindset from readers displaying the beauty within the ordinary side of nature, stimulating a better appreciation for the care that our environment needs from us.
It was 2017, for months and months I had seen the occasional “elephant passing through our camp” snapshot. But there had been no sign of any of David Ward’s heart stopping, beautiful, keep you looking over and over again pictures.
Then this appeared. Perhaps cool water to a parched throat, but pwhooar!
I am not even sure if it is the first one he posted after a couple of years during which he left both camera and social media pretty much locked in a cupboard. However, this is the one that has stuck in my head.
Arild Heitmann’s portfolio is not short of the sublime images that many photographers aim for (but mostly miss). He has many photographs drawn from trips to the mountains of Italy or Iceland or of the iconic Arctic hotspots of Lofoten or Sejna. But it’s the photographs he takes from his backyard on the mainland of Arctic Norway, a literal hinterland, that are the subject of his first book. A choice that might seem contrary to some given his access to such amazing places, but Arild’s logic that work based on the intimate knowledge of an area trumps the transient, drive-by shooting style many prefer, has resulted in something with more depth than a ‘greatest hits' or “Now That’s What I Call Lofoten 2020” book. Heime, or Home, is a meal to be savoured, an experience more akin to a Movie than a Tik Tok short.
The book itself is large, not so large to make it hard to handle but deep, both physically and creatively. The printing is a bit different from many books I’ve seen. It’s on thicker, more textured paper and done in a way that gives a little less contrast. The effect is more of a fine art print on watercolour paper.
It's fair to say that Arild's 'Home' is still more amazing than most and that is definitely reflected in the work. However, the photographs eschew the instant hit and theatrics that seem to be the mainstream and transition through the seasons and subjects with a good balance of intimate and large scale views. Take a look at Arild’s website and if you like the work there, I’m sure you’ll like the whole book.
Alongside the book, and included in its purchase, is a smaller book, I suppose you might call it a large pamphlet, with some background on the creation of the work (see the final photo in the gallery).
You can find more information and a link to purchase the book at Arild’s website.
Hans Strand - Beyond Landscape
We’ve featured Hans Strand’s work a few times in On Landscape and it’s no secret that we’re big fans. Hans has a strong eye for the intimate, whether it be nearby abstracts or aerial compositions, so a compilation of these kinds of images makes a lot of sense. Hans' photo book output has been quite varied over the years. I really liked Triplekite’s "Above and Below" and loved "Den Åtond Dagen" (sadly difficult to get hold of). Triplekite’s “Intimate” was good, but a few copies I saw had printing problems. There are some great photographs in “Island” but it’s a hell of a tome and you need deep pockets and a deep love of Iceland (and strong arms!) to make the most of it.
So it was good to hear that Kozu were printing a book of Hans’ work which includes a lot of his more intimate work and also his aerials. Here we have a mix across most of Hans’ photographic output from the 2000s onwards and which includes many of my favourites and a broad range of new work including some amazing Icelandic glacier aerials and ‘hand of man’ photographs of European farming and mining practices (it’s only fair that Hans steps on Burtynsky’s shoes being as Burtynsky stole a whole swathe of Hans work, one of many photographers to do so).
I only have a couple of pictures from other photographers on my wall at home. A photograph by David and Angie Unsworth and a large aerial from Hans Strand. That should make it clear how much I like Hans’ work and I'm very happy to see a well-printed book published.
I’ve known of Adam’s photographic work since I started photography. He’s always had an excellent eye for composition and although his early work was primarily botanical, when he moved to the larger landscape, this eye for light, balance and form found a perfect home. That eye won him a couple of awards in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition and, latterly, a win in the International Landscape Photographer of the Year competition (a very worthy one!). Kozu books were obviously following his successes and his popularity on YouTube and published “Quiet Light” a compilation of some of his best work, now on its third edition! You can buy from Kozu directly via this link (I'd get in before the 3rd edition runs out, there may not be a 4th).
Adam Gibbs - Aspen
Kozu also recently published a short book about an amazing project of Adam’s based on a small area near Abraham Lake and the Kootenay Plains in Banff National Park. Here, a silica blue lake had flooded an Aspen forest. Timed perfectly for autumnal colour, Adam had the trip of a lifetime and produced a set of images that any photographer would be jealous of.
Aspen can be bought directly from the Kozu website here.
Welcome to our 4x4 feature which is a set of four mini landscape photography portfolios submitted from our subscribers. Each portfolio consists of four images related in some way.
Submit Your 4x4 Portfolio
Interested in submitting your work? We're on the lookout for new portfolios for the next few issues, so please do get in touch!
Prior to last year, I hadn't done much woodland photography but this year I set myself a goal very early to make the most of Autumn and when lockdown's ended, I started exploring local woodland with the intention of identifying compositions. This didn't really work as it was too difficult to pre-visualise how they may look in Autumn whilst swathed in a cloak of green. But it did give me a good understanding of geography including paths and, notably, areas that definitely wouldn’t work. e.g. the small pockets of evergreens.
I strive for a realistic look in all my photography; not the punchy, ‘smack it too em’, heavily saturated colours associated with a lot of social media. My aim was to make photographs that conveyed the beauty of natural woodland through utilising shapes, arrangements and colours. I hope I’ve managed to achieve that with these photographs.
Three of the photographs are from near the old market town of Wickwar in South Western England and the fourth - with sticks on the forest floor - from the Forest of Dean.
On the eastern part of the mighty Himalayas in North Bengal, we can see multiple small hills which form a brilliant layering as well move towards the snowy peaks from the lowlands. What is more intriguing about these hills is the fact that clouds get accumulated in between the hills and form majestic landscapes. There are number of tea plantations here as well, but the clouds above the hills and the ones below them, in their troughs come together to create beautiful sceneries.
During sunrise, the views become even better and just before dawn, during the transition between blue hour and golden hour, the sky lights up like fire and the ground remains blue, giving a once in a day opportunity to enjoy the most mesmerising views of the mountains.
One of the most colourful trees in our garden is the Japanese maple, Acer palmatum, which we bought not long after we moved to this house. Known best for its fiery red autumn leaves, its appearance changes every day as the seasons bring with them new buds and green shoots, tiny flowers followed by the characteristic spinning seeds or keys, dormant twigs or a riot of colour. The weather too, rain or shine, heat or frost brings out different characteristics. One day the twigs may be laden with raindrops, the next the leaves might be blown ragged in the wind.
I decided to try to capture one year in the life of this lovely tree in a series of photographs. We’re all familiar with big pictures of big trees, but I decided to get in close and shoot at f/1.4. In the course of doing that I got to know this familiar tree – a friend of almost 40 years’ standing in the garden – better than ever before. I realised too that it’s not necessary for a photographer to travel long distances in the hunt for subjects.
By professional reputation, I’m a portrait photographer. The late film director, John Huston, whose portrait I earned the right to shoot with a winning poker hand during a poker game in Budapest, had a face like a road map of Hollywood. I’ve enjoyed memorializing the landscapes of faces like his.
Over the piles of cash we anted up (local Hungarian forints made it seem like we were playing with Monopoly money) Huston told me, "It's not poker unless someone gets hurt.” I tried not to hurt anyone with my camera by getting close enough for a good clean shot — close as in rapport, not just proximity — to avoid inflicting gratuitous wounds.
We don’t LOAD cameras much anymore, but we still AIM them and SHOOT pictures. With that in mind, I still get a bang out of describing my pursuit of portraits as a predatory sport, hunting big game: the famous and the simply fascinating.
To memorialise each encounter with an interesting human being, in one shot so to speak, epitomizes the hunt. When I was proud enough of a new portrait to add it to my collection, it was because the subject allowed me to reveal something personal framed within a graphical composition. Predatory? I’d bag my quarry by looking through a lens, not down the barrel of a gun. But I still hung their heads on a wall to admire like trophies.
I rarely had time for landscapes. Now, I'm making time, hunting for places as much as people and showing others what I’ve been lucky to see and distil through my viewfinder.
Regrettably, the words PORTRAIT and LANDSCAPE have been commercially appropriated. To some people, it simply means the vertical vs. horizontal framing of a picture. But both portrait and landscape are art forms, not formats.
After a long hiatus from my early attempts, I thought I'd step back into landscapes again. I've included one of my old favorites, "Conzelman Road," made in 1987 above San Francisco's Golden Gate in the Marin Headlands. It was shot on film, of course. Now, I've gone digital with a Hasselblad CFV II 50C fastened onto the same ELX 2¼ camera I used decades ago to make that photograph AND a new Cambo Actus DB onto which I can fasten the very same digital-capture device as easily as I could swap out a Hassy 12-exposure film back, which both replaces looks like. No! It looks better.
The results with both set-ups are equal to the quality I achieved with a 4x5 film camera. Now, though, my gear is more portable, allowing for an increasing number of peripatetic expeditions. Incidentally, I used my 4x5 for portraits as often as 2¼.
For my ”4x4” I chose three landscapes shot within the past month plus one made nearly 35 years ago, to make a point about digital interoperability.
Since I acquired a 28mm Digaron lens, I decided I had to have the Cambo's technical movements, too. I used that Cambo combo to photograph the Ocean Beach Sea Wall. With the Hasselblad back's 43.8 x 32.9mm sensor size, I have the equivalent of a 20mm lens on a 35mm camera (and about the same size) but with the resolution of 4x5 film. Ya can't beat 50MP. Well, yes you can with Hasselblad's pixel-porn H6D-400C. Yes, That’s 400MP at a correspondingly radical price point. I'm sure Hassy's X System will eventually drop a 100- to 400MP sensor in our laps.
For the tree roots, I used a Hasselblad 907X with the same CFV II 50C that I used to photograph the pebbles in beach sand, but attached to an antediluvian Hasselblad 500C/M instead.
