black and white

...now browsing by tag

 
 

Braced against the wind

Friday, January 6th, 2012

In Medicine Bow, Wyoming, they say the wind doesn’t blow twenty four hours out of the whole year.  Even in July, the wind is cold, noisy, all-consuming.  One morning, my friend, hiking in the wind near Medicine Bow tripped, and at the last second looked down to see a small prairie rattlesnake strike right between her legs; if she hadn’t stumbled, she would have been bitten.  The wind silenced the snake’s warning rattle.

The wind can be harsh, cold, brutal, and at the same time it can be life-giving, sustaining.  It shapes who we are, and what we have yet to become.  If you’ve lived with it for any period of time, you know what I’m talking about.  It may be much more tangible to see how the wind shapes the landscapes we love so much.  I’m excited to present four new images (See the portfolio here, as well as below) from two of our national parks–Bryce Canyon and Death Valley–that are devoted to the wind that shapes these beautiful, mysterious, and awe-inspiring places.

Bryce Canyon National Park is hugely popular, being part of the “Grand Circle” of the Southwest, and its no wonder why.  Bryce’s hoodoos–formed by the brilliantly colorful Claron Formation–simply glow like no other rock in southern Utah.  In concert with water, the wind shapes the hoodoos into various shapes–from hammers, to broken palaces, to entire cities.  Jagged and raw, Bryce inspires imagination and creativity, and as Ebenezer Bryce pointed out, “its a hell of a place to lose a cow.”

Contrast Bryce’s ruggedness with Death Valley’s seemingly endless sand dunes.  The wind shapes the sand into sensuous, almost erotic, curves that perhaps could be an abstract nude study rather than a grand landscape.  The light plays on the dunes on both a micro and macro scale, providing endless shapes and forms.

Hoodoos in late afternoon light, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Bryce Canyon #1, 2011

 

Hoodoos in late afternoon light, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Bryce Canyon #2, 2011

 

Ibex Dunes, Death Valley National Park, California

Death Valley #1, 2011

 

Ibex Dunes, Death Valley National Park, California

Death Valley #2, 2011

These images signify–in part–the forces that have shaped our national parks.  To help with the continued protection of our public lands, I’ll be donating 25% of the profits from the sale of these prints to the Wilderness Society, which works to make visits to our national parks more meaningful and inspiring.  This is not a limited-edition series of prints, and this offer doesn’t expire–I’ll make the donations forever.  Finally, I am offering special pricing for the purchase of all four of these prints, in any size.  Please visit my purchase page, or contact me for more details.

“The truest art I would strive for in any work would be to give the page the same qualities as earth: weather would land on it harshly, light would elucidate the most difficult truths; wind would sweep away obtuse padding. Finally, the lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life.”   –Gretel Ehrlich

Photo(s) of the Month–November

Friday, November 4th, 2011

I think this is the first time since beginning this blog I’ve broken from my Photo of the Month tradition.  Its not really for lack of wanting.  The truth is, I have had trouble deciding on just one image.

Instead I’ve decided to share a few new images that I’ve been working on, all with a common theme:  long exposure.   In the right situation, a long exposure provides extra time for either the camera to move, or elements within the frame to move (like clouds or water), adding unique drama to a scene.

First, I recently purchased an 8-stop neutral density filter.   I’ve wanted one for quite a while, after seeing some great long exposure work from other photographers.  Mac Danzig has a great tutorial/informational blog post on them here.  I waited for a stormy morning with dramatic skies to try it out at a local beach, with some great rock formations.  The rock in the second image reminds me of a molar from a Pleistocene-epoch carnivore…

Stormy morning at Little Corona Beach, Newport Beach, California

Stormy morning, November 2011

A clearing storm at Little Corona Beach, Newport Beach, California

The sea's jaws, November 2011

In addition to letting the scene move, interesting effects can also be achieved by moving the camera while the shutter is open.  Zoom blurs have become more popular over the last few years, but I added another element.  In addition to zooming the lens during the exposure, I also rotated the camera.  The subject I chose to try this out on is California buckwheat (Eriogonum fasciculatum foliolosum); I have always loved the fall color palette of this plant, but haven’t been able to make an image of I like.  Finally, with this technique–although it won’t appeal to everyone–I feel like I’ve gotten the colors to blend in a way that’s appealing to me.

An abstract image of California Buckwheat (Eriogonum fasciculatum foliolosum)

Hallucination I, October 2011

 

An abstract image of California Buckwheat (Eriogonum fasciculatum foliolosum)

Hallucination II, October 2011

Looking out my window, I think autumn may have finally come to southern California!  I hope you have a great November; in the U.S. its a time we give thanks for many things–what are you thankful for this month?

 

Photo of the Month–August

Monday, August 1st, 2011

Sometimes, its the small scenes that really grab you, draw you in, and move you.  Indeed, the intimate landscape is often the grandest.  I made August’s photo in Nevada’s Valley of Fire State Park, where a tiny mineral deposit in the sandstone stopped me in my tracks.  It took a few different exposure settings to get the effect I wanted: to really accentuate the fine lines in the deposit, making them prominent in the frame.

Abstract sandstone image in Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada

Dendritic Connections, April 2011

At the time I made the image, as well as now, this little pattern reminds a neuron–our brains are made up largely of billions of these cells, each one connected to the other by thousands (or hundreds of thousands) of other connections.  In this way, information travels in the form of electrical impulses from cell to cell.  While biologists understand the basics of how information is transmitted, they do not understand completely how information is perceived and interpreted.  It is clear, however, that perception is an incredibly complex trait.

Although the basics of perception are probably quite similar between individuals, we only have to look around to see that everyone is different–we’re all uniquely us.  As such, it is logical to conclude that our brains all interpret scenes, beauty, differently.  If you’re reading this, you probably agree that art is subjective, but rather than simply accepting it, I find great joy in knowing we all see the world differently.  There are so many ways of seeing; that’s a fact worth celebrating.

 

Till Death

Friday, July 22nd, 2011

Not to sound too sociopathic, but death has always interested me.  Perhaps its the remnants of a childhood curiosity, but when I’m out and I see a dead animal I always stop to look at it, and if I have my camera handy, I often will photograph it as well (see here and here).  I guess, on some level, I feel there’s a very distinguished beauty in death, the ability to rest in peace, returning to the earth, and photographing it is my way of honoring the cycle we all will participate in.

Last week, a Cooper’s Hawk (Accipiter cooperii) turned up in my yard; it had been completely consumed by another predator (another hawk, I assume), leaving only the legs, wings, and tail feathers.  Before picking up the carcass, I made sure to make a few images of it.

Cooper's Hawk (Accipiter cooperii) talons

Talons, July 2011

Wing of a cooper's hawk (Accipiter cooperii)

Flight pattern, July 2011

The Paria, part III: mud

Friday, April 15th, 2011

In addition to its immense, subtle beauty, another overriding theme of the Paria River is mud.  The river bed has a high clay content, and if you’ve ever been in clay soil when its even a little wet, you know it can be a disaster–its slick, sticky, and vehicles can get stuck in it in a moment.

In the spring, runoff from high elevation prevents some mud (by way of keeping from drying enough to reach that sticky, goopy, phase), but its always a factor.  What I like about clay is that it always forms beautiful patterns as it begins drying out.  This little patch was reflecting the red rock cliffs on the opposite side of the river early in the day.

Beautiful mud formations on the Paria River, Utah

Mud & Reflections, March 2011

I also ended up finding a few areas of quicksand, involuntarily, on my hike in the Paria.  I felt the area with my hiking pole, and feeling solid, I stepped, only to be swallowed up to my thigh almost instantly.  Fortunately, it was easy to pull myself out.  People who haven’t dealt with it have a misconception about quicksand.  It can’t really suck you into oblivion like childhood cartoons and TV shows lead you to believe.  But, as Ed Abbey writes,

Ordinarily it is possible for a man to walk across quicksand, if he keeps moving. But if he stops, funny things begin to happen. The surface of the quicksand, which may look as firm as the wet sand on an ocean beach, begins to liquefy beneath his feet. He finds himself sinking slowly into a jelly-like substance, soft and quivering, which clasps itself around his ankles with the suction power of any vicsous fluid. Pulling out one foot, the other foot necessarily goes down deeper, and if a man waits too long, or cannot reach something solid beyond the quicksand, he may soon find himself trapped. … Unless a man is extremely talented, he cannot work himself [into the quicksand] more than waist-deep. The quicksand will not pull him down. But it will not let him go either. Therefore the conclusion is that while quicksand cannot drown its captive, it could possibly starve him to death. Whatever finally happens, the immediate effects are always interesting.

Finally, the most beautiful effects, in my opinion, happen when the mud begins drying.  Because clay expands so much when wet, it cracks in beautiful, wonderfully stochastic patterns.  You can find little pockets of dried mud all along the bases of the sandstone walls.

Cracked Mud, Paria River, Utah

Sandstone and Mud, March 2011

Mud is a major component of the landscape in the Paria, as well as throughout any ephemeral drainage in the southwest.  While it can be viewed as a nonphotogenic nuisance, sometimes, its helpful to look at it in a new light.

Mecca Hills Wilderness

Monday, March 28th, 2011

Late last week, we made a day trip out to the Mecca Hills Wilderness, which is located near Indio California in the Coachella Valley.  The landscape twists and turns in a very unique and beautiful way; formed by the San Andreas fault, the Mecca Hills are a badlands with colors reminiscent of the Artists’ Palette in Death Valley National Park, and canyons that would rival even the narrowest of slot canyons in Utah.

While there, we made sure to stop and hike through the popular Ladder Canyon.  Only 3-4′ wide in places and over 200′ deep, Ladder Canyon would be a technical ascent (or descent) if it weren’t for the ladders which give the canyon its name.  Due to the hike’s popularity and proximity to Palm Springs, solitude came in sporadic bursts.  Still, it was great to be in there, making images.

Ladder Canyon, Mecca Hills Wilderness, California
Ladder Canyon, March 2011

A series of unusually strong late-season storms have been hitting southern California for the last week or so, too.  Driving out, the fast-moving clouds from one of the systems had an interesting play on the light over the badlands.

Mecca Hills Wilderness Badlands, California

Badlands & Clouds, March 2011

I’m unplugging and heading off to Utah and Nevada for the week.  Hope you have a good one!

Saguaros in Sepia

Friday, February 4th, 2011

Hollywood and mis-informed artists.

Made the saguaro a Texas Icon.

But the saguaro only grows in Arizona.

Where people’ve got em’ out on their lawn.

The Reverend Horton Heat

Indeed, its true.  Often thought of as a symbol of the American West, the saguaro cactus (Carnegiea gigantea) is confined to the Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona, and southward into the states of Sonora and Baja, in Mexico.  However, despite its somewhat limited geographic range, the saguaro still symbolizes much of what we associate with the American West, like resilience and fortitude.  Saguaros can grow quickly, even in the hot, dry environment of southern Arizona.  On young plants, the spines can grow up to a millimeter a day.  In addition, they’re long-lived.  They don’t even start branching until they’re several decades old.

Even after their death, the skeletons of these magnificent cacti stand strong against the elements, preserved by the dry desert air.  I found a couple of cacti skeletons on a recent trip to Phoenix.  I thought the lines they made were artful, graceful, almost sensuous.

Saguaro Cactus skeleton located near Phoenix Arizona

Saguaro Skeleton I, January 2011

Detail of Saguaro Cactus skeleton near Phoenix Arizona

Saguaro Skeleton II, January 2011

Those who passed before me

Monday, January 24th, 2011

Have you ever imagined what the first people who walked into a place as grand as Yosemite Valley, or a beautiful remote canyon in Utah must have thought?  Unless they wrote their thoughts down, we can’t be sure, but I’d imagine it was something along the lines of “Holy Crap!”

Being the first person to see a place must give a grand sense of accomplishment.  But, similarly, seeing something grand for the first time–whether you’re the discoverer or not–can also be satisfying.  Perhaps you’re the first visitor of the season, knowing the canyon you’re in was left to the mountain lions, flash floods, and snowstorms for many months prior to your visit.  Or, maybe you’re witnessing your favorite peak after an epic summer storm being lit up by a fantastic atmospheric light show.  The sort of feelings and memories we take from experiences like this can easily leave us feeling like the most intrepid explorer.

As photographers, we try to make images of the places we visit as if we were the first to visit these locations.  We criticize an image if there are footprints in the dirt; I once saw another photographer carefully sweeping footprints out of the sand underneath an oft-visited arch in Utah.  Few photographers could claim theirs is the first image made at that spot (with the occasional very notable exception), but we want our image to look pristine, unvisited, wild just the same.

Alternatively, for me anyway, knowing I’m not the first person to pass through a place can be just as satisfying.  I made the images below at an intersection of two slot canyons in southern Utah recently.  (I think) the petroglyphs are from the Fremont period, from ~900-1300 AD (although if anyone could help me figure this out, I’d appreciate it); even if I’m wrong, these drawings have been on the wall of this canyon for many hundreds of years.  To me, being able to appreciate those who passed before me is just as satisfying as the idea of actually being the first to see an area.

This image may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and I understand that.  But, to me, its simple, telling, beautiful.  I hope you enjoy it.  Click on the image to see it big.

Petroglyphs located in Buckskin Gulch, Utah

Petroglyph Diptych, January 2011

Ice Abstracts

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

Several years ago, Ernest Atencio wrote an essay called “Little Wild Places”  in which he talked about wild places–even the smallest ones surrounded by city–as locations where we can rekindle our relationship with the natural world.

On our recent visit to Wyoming, I was lucky to have a creek to walk near several times.  Deer visit the creek daily; raccoons, pronghorn antelope, grouse, several small rodents, and other birds are not infrequent visitors.  One afternoon on my walk, the abstract patterns of the ice struck me and I attempted to make some abstract images of it.

abstract image of ice on a creek in winter

Ice Abstract I, December 2010

While making these images, I looked up, briefly, and saw one of the creek’s residents–a small mouse–bolting back into the underbrush.  I think it must have been as surprised as I was–what a strange being it encountered on the side of *its* creek!

abstract image of ice on a creek in winter

Ice Abstract II, December 2010

If you’re interested, there was quite a bit of technique that went into making these images.  Each one is a composite of 9 separate RAW files.  I wanted to maximize depth of field, so I focused at three separate planes through each image.  Each of these was then combined in Photoshop to maximize depth of field (I’ve blogged about this technique in the past).  At each plane of focus, I bracketed the exposure to maximize the dynamic range that was captured in the scene.  Finally, I converted the image to monochrome using Nik’s Silver Efex Pro, and added a slight silver-blue tone to convey the sense of a chilled winter day.  So, I guess these are HDR, focus-bracketed ice abstracts.  Whew…what a mouthful.  I hope you just think they’re pretty.

I was thankful to have this little wild place to not only rekindle my connection with nature, but also to foster some creativity in my photography.

How do you use little wild places?

The Bone Yard

Friday, December 17th, 2010

Fire is a crucial element in southern California’s ecology and culture.  Every fall, fueled by the Santa Ana winds, fire descends upon the sage scrub communities, cleaning out the underbrush, allowing life to start anew.  The Santa Anas (and to some extent their homologues in other Mediterranean climates) have an almost mythical status, and are the subject of Crime Noir novels (The Underground Man, 1971) and even punk rock (Bad Religion’s Los Angeles is Burning).

I photographed this burn area last weekend (it burned in late July) in the–appropriately named–Santa Ana Mountains of southern California.  While life is starting to spring back up, the area is still largely a bone yard.

Burn area in southern California's Santa Ana Mountains

The Bone Yard, December 2010