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Persistence

Friday, June 24th, 2011

The ability of nature to persist and overcome challenges is something that continues to amaze me.  I remember, when I lived in Wyoming, driving to the Medicine Bow Mountains for the first time, and seeing the wind-battered pines that have been successful despite decades of cold temperatures, howling gales, and heavy snowfall.  Many of them seemed to grow (albeit somewhat crookedly) out of solid granite.  We read all the time about organisms that persist in some of the world’s most hostile environments (see here and here).

I just returned from a fantastic trip to southwestern Utah.  High on the wall of a slot canyon, I noticed these trees–a maple and a piñon pine–clinging to the rock, about 60′ in the air.  Surely, these trees have not had an easy life.  While they probably never see flood water, they must deal with howling winds, freezing temperatures, and despite the creek beneath them, probably a paucity of water.  Yet, they survive.

Redrock walls of Kanarra Creek, near Kanarraville, Utah

Persistence, June 2011

This sort of persistence becomes an instructive metaphor for photography, too.  Although it may not be the easiest way to survive, these trees hang on and dig in with their roots, making a life for themselves.  In much the same way, it is all too easy for a photographer to get caught up in making images of scenes that have been photographed many times before.  The real art comes from years of persistence, when the image-makers dig deep into themselves, ask the tough questions about inspiration and creativity, and follow their heart.  After all, your art should be about you.  In much the same way as these trees have created art, the photographer does so…with a little persistence.

 

Just Like Everywhere…and Nowhere

Tuesday, May 10th, 2011

Despite my love for the high desert, I have to confess that it feels pretty good to be back in the mountains for the summer.  This weekend, we headed to the San Bernardino mountains for a quick, local, Mother’s Day camping trip.  On the way home, fog from a very heavy marine layer was working its way inland, and up into the foothills of the mountains.  I loved the way it was drifting through the valleys, and watching it move slowly gave a lovely sense of peace.

Click on the image to view it large on black (highly recommended)

Fog drifts in the valleys of the San Bernardino Mountains above Redlands

In the Clouds, May 2011

One of the things that gives this image its uniqueness is the skeletons of dead pine trees scattered throughout the hillside; however, its also those trees that make this a not-so-uncommon scene in the West.  The trees were killed by mountain pine beetles, which have not only devastated forests in southern California, but all over the West.  They burrow into the trees, and block their ability to assimilate nutrients.  Its interesting to me how the appeal of an image can be imparted from the biology that killed the trees.

This scene is also is a reminder of the nature of landscape photography in general.  Although you might see other scenes similar to this, no one will ever be able to make this same image again.  As I made this image, I thought to myself about coming back on a day with similar weather, when I have more time to try making images.  I probably will return at some point, but this was really serendipitous weather.  Running into (or in my case, haphazardly stumbling upon) an ephemeral scene like this, and being able to make an image of it, is really the essence of the craft.

I hope you had a fantastic Mother’s Day!

 

An Honest Silence

Friday, March 4th, 2011

In my blog post, “Topophilia,” an essay about the value of the desert southwest, particularly southern Utah, I wrote that I, “feel connected with the land in a way that words cannot describe.”

Indeed I do.  Some people may contend that the wild canyons and plateaus are dangerous; yes, Mother Nature can be treacherous–violently so.  However, despite that, I find sanctuary in the sandstone, a place of refuge and rejuvenation, of clarity and healing.  How can I find words to describe this place?  I may not ever be able to do it justice.

Canyon and cedar snag in the grand staircase escalante national monument, utah

Cedar Snag, Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, August 2009

Last week, I met Ann Marie Whittaker through her blog, “Age Old Tree,”  and discovered her prose about why she loves her Red Rock Wilderness.  In a brief email exchange, I could sense a profound sense of place and love in her voice for this beautiful slickrock desert so many people fall in love with.  We need more people like Ann Marie in this world; I hope you go to her blog and read the post over and over (make sure to check out part two as well).  You’ll be inspired; I am, and I learned that its actually okay to embrace an honest silence about a place.

I’m still not sure what I want to say about southern Utah, but I’m very happy its there, and that its loved by so many.

beautiful and colorful sandstone formation, with calcite, southern utah

Sandstone Kaleidoscope, January 2011

i Love Mountains

Monday, February 14th, 2011

In his 2005 essay My Conversation with Gurney Norman, Wendell Berry wrote:

On the mountain above Hardburley we stood and looked at the first working strip mine I ever saw.  It had never occurred to me that people could destroy land with an indifference that perfectly matched the capability of their technology.  The big machines were following the seam of coal around the mountain, leaving a high vertical wall like an open sore on one side and on the other the “overburden” of earth and rock thrown regardlessly down upon the forest and streams below.

This past weekend, and into today–Valentine’s Day–a small group of Kentuckians, including Wendell Berry, are sleeping at the Governor’s office of that state to protest the practice of mountaintop coal mining (which is different in practice, but not destruction, from the strip mining Berry describes above; link here).  Their protest leads up to “i Love Mountains” Day, which is meant to bring awareness to this practice.

Earlier yesterday evening I was trying to come up with a post to help commemorate Valentine’s Day.  Despite my better efforts, inspiration did not come (not for lack of material, mind you).  As I read about i Love Mountains Day, inspiration struck: I have a Valentine’s Day post!  So, what does mountaintop coal mining in the Appalachian Mountains have to do with me, and what could it possibly have to do with Valentine’s Day?

You see, even here in southern California, some of my electricity is supplied by coal that was mined in this fashion.  I bet some of yours is too (click here to find out).  When I was in Wyoming in December, I was able to see first-hand some areas of strip mining taking place near the town of Gillette; Berry’s description of the process is fitting.  All of this serves as a perfect reminder of how we are all interconnected, sometimes in the most nonintuitive of ways.  Often, this interconnectedness is pushed to the back of our minds, whether by accident, or for convenience’s sake.

I’m somewhat hesitant to post this as a one-sided, know-it-all, environmental rant for a couple of reasons.  First, I can’t claim to be an expert on any type of coal mining, and although it hurts my heart to think about the earth being destroyed in such a way, I’m also a hypocrite.  I happily use the electricity generated from that coal (I’m using it to write this blog post right now).  Should I (we?) look for alternative sources of energy for our homes or communities?  Absolutely.  Again, that’s one of those things that often gets neatly swept under the rug when we’re too busy to deal with it.

Second, many of the people mining in Kentucky and elsewhere probably have a connection to the land rooted in many generations who have done just what they’re doing now.  If, in fact, this practice is stopped, someone (many someones probably) is going to face the challenge of feeding his family.  Is that a reason to continue with the status quo, with no opportunity or effort to find an alternative?  Of course not.  But it illustrates how few, if any, environmental issues are one-sided; they’re often multifaceted with no clear-cut solution.

Although I don’t have a solution, or even a suggestion for one, two points are clear to me.  The first is that every action we take has far-reaching effects, often beyond our awareness.  The second is that if we’re going to sustain of a quality of life for our future generations we absolutely must be cognizant of the ramifications of our actions.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you and yours.  Despite my doom and gloom today, there’s much to be happy about!  Make sure you tell your favorite mountain you love it today.

Tuolumne Meadows, with many of the major peaks in Yosemite National Park

Tuolumne Meadows, August 2009

Magnolia Blossoms

Thursday, January 27th, 2011

The neighbor’s magnolia tree hangs into our backyard, and the flowers are in bloom right now.  I’ve been looking at the flowers for a few days trying to figure out how to make an image of these flowers that will really make them pop.  Above the tree are some rather unattractive utility lines and the density of other trees makes for a not-so-clean background, from any angle.

Inspired by several of William Neill’s outstanding flower images made in a home studio (see some of my favorites here, here, and here), I decided to take a few branch clippings and try it myself in my garage.

The real challenge was mounting the clippings; I used “C-clamps” and a step ladder to stagger the branches on the left, and another clamp on a spare tripod for the branch on the right.  I used a piece of white foam core to bounce the my flash for some side lighting.

These blooms are from a ‘Japanese Magnolia’ (Magnolia liliiflora), which is different from the species that’s much more common to North America.

Image of Magnolia Blossoms made in a home studio

Magnolia Blossoms, 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

(Re)alignment

Friday, January 14th, 2011

Ask almost any photographer and they’ll tell you that one of the most difficult aspects of their art is writing an artists’ bio.  Kah Kit Yoong, in a recent blog post, lamented that writing his own bio felt like,

tiptoeing the tightrope between modesty and shameless self-aggrandizing.

Yup.  That about sums it up.  Over the last few days, I’ve been working on a rewrite of my own bio and have felt like I’ve been walking a tenuous line the entire time.  My biggest goal was to make myself sound real, that the images I make and the places I visit are important to me.  I owe many thanks to my wife and friends (including David Leland Hyde) for reading drafts and offering suggestions for improvement; I hope you read the finished product by clicking on the ‘About’ tab at the top of this page, or by visiting the ‘About‘ page on my main website.

Why did I have a sudden desire to write my own bio?  There are a couple of reasons.  I wrote my original bio very early in my photographic career, and while I didn’t write what I thought people would want to read, I also didn’t have a clear vision for my work.  Now, several years have passed, and I’ve evolved.  My photographic focus is becoming somewhat narrower–I want to make images of scenes that give me a sense of belonging to the environment.  The new bio reflects that desire.

My second reason to rewrite now sprouted from my most recent trip to the Southwest.  Being back in a small town, close to slickrock and the fantastic sunrises and sunsets that help characterize the area really crystallized the need to realign my life–to simplify and focus.  I doubt any big changes will happen in my life soon, but I’m happy to have a “bigger picture” goal in mind.

Detail of sandstone in the north coyote buttes area of northern arizona

Luminous, January 2011

What obstacles have you run into while writing your bio, or while trying to describe your vision?  How have you overcome those obstacles, and where have you found inspiration?

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?

International Mountain Day

Saturday, December 11th, 2010

The United Nations designated 2002 as the Year of the Mountain, meant to draw attention to mountain communities and culture, and to highlight their importance to the global community.  Since then, December 11 has been recognized as International Mountain Day, recognizing mountain minorities and indigenous peoples.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve sought refuge and solace in mountains; many times throughout my life, I have stood on steep mountain slopes, feeling more at home than I’ve felt in any city or town.  In graduate school, I studied–in part–human evolution at high altitude.  Mountains have always been a huge part of my life; I’m happy to take the day to recognize the importance of mountain culture on the world stage.  If mountains are a part of your life, take a moment today to reflect on the importance of indigenous mountain communities on our lives and on the global community.

The Great Western Divide, Sequoia National Park, California

Sierra Crest, Sequoia National Park, November 2010

A path into thin air

Thursday, October 21st, 2010

“In the high country of the mind one has to become adjusted to the thinner air of uncertainty…”–Robert M. Pirsig

Late last week, we decided to take a last-minute trip to the east side of the Sierra Nevada to visit the beautiful fall colors.  Having grown up in the Rocky Mountains, my wife and I both miss the crisp air and changing colors of autumn.  We arrived in Mammoth Lakes late Friday night, and I was able to photograph sunrise at nearby Convict Lake the following morning.  Not only are the fall colors at the end of this image beautiful, but I love the textures present on Laurel Mountain, which is at the western border of the lake.

Sunrise at Convict Lake with Laurel Mountain in the background

Laurel Mountain alpenglow, October 2010

After shooting sunrise, I walked over to the aspen grove you see in the above photo.  These days, it seems like photographers go hand-in-hand with aspen groves in the eastern Sierra.  Some people might argue that the photographers outnumber the aspen trees!  The beautiful thing about this aspen grove was that although small, I had it completely to myself.  I was able to walk through the trees in silence, enjoying their beautiful show.

This time of year, the blogosphere is flooded with beautiful images of fall colors, however I have a confession.  Photographing these aspen groves is difficult for me; while beautiful, Sierra aspen groves feel “chaotic” to me, and making an original composition is difficult.  However, the quote that began this blog post applies to my feelings on my “dilemma.”  One of the best lessons to learn as a landscape photographer, in my opinion, is to not force compositions out of the landscape, but rather to let the landscape guide you.  In other words, when I found myself in this uncertain, chaotic situation, I had to let the landscape guide me, thinking outside of what I normally would do; that’s when the true creativity began to happen.

A path leading into an aspen grove near Convict Lake, Mono County California

Autumnal Path, October 2010

How do you let the landscape guide you toward compositions?  I’d love to hear what inspires you in the comments…

Detail of an aspen leaf in the Sierra Nevada

Aspen Leaf detail, October 2010