2022: 44 To The Trees

A long weekend gives me ample time to think about a new project. The draw of nature continues to inspire my photography. A 90 mile drive north and west of Albuquerque landed me in the mountains north of Grants, NM. The forests rise towards Mount Taylor. A perfect place to explore the abundance of trees that somehow continue to exist in a world of threats, both natural and man-made. My camera leads me to this place, my mind pushes me to wander further. Off the dirt road, among fallen trees, under a light dusting of snow… what will be revealed to me?

2022: 41 First Impressions

My wandering path away from straight photography has taken me on a surprising journey. Discovering alternative ways to make imagery has felt more personal, more unique, and certainly more tactile. Case in point: I returned to the Rio Grande bosque this week, an environment I’ve photographed numerous times over the past three or four years. This time, instead of taking my camera, I carried a pad of newsprint and some charcoal for sketching. I don’t possess any real drawing skills (hence my predilection for photography) but I ended up doing a series of relief rubbings, or as the French call them: frottage. Placing paper on rough surfaces of tree bark and cut logs and rubbing with charcoal, I was able to make new images in an environment that I thought had shown me everything it was going to reveal. The act of rubbing also engaged me in ways that went beyond just seeing. There are trails made by bark beetles scattered across many fallen trees in the bosque. Their destructive paths etched onto the stripped trunks of now dead trees. They produce wonderful patterns and textures, and they provided me with a new way to visualize my own path. Twisted, organic, wandering, yet expressive.

2020: 46 (Metaphors)

Photographic practice can act as a metaphor during these challenging times we find ourselves living in. I thought about this as I undertook my weekly wander through the bosque this Thursday. So much unknown hovering around me, even when the environment is familiar. There is change evident in my surroundings, even if it is not immediately obvious. Time takes its time, sometimes. The desire for quick answers and obvious results is an unreasonable expectation. I walk quietly, wearing a mask, even though there are no other people around. I rely on technology to make my images that has been around for decades. Even though cameras have been upgraded digitally, I still rely on old tools and easy-to-dismiss “toys” that require using my hands, my eyes, my patience. November feels different, especially this year…so much pain and loss and confusion. I walked with my camera on cold mornings back in March and April, when the pandemic first reared its head, and now I’m doing exactly the same thing. My work has become more layered, more dense, more dramatically contrasty, dirtier, more expressive, and ultimately… less restrained, more free. Perhaps in the past one image would suffice in telling a story, now layers upon layers combine to express what is in my mind and in my heart. In the end, my process relies on my ability to see. And it relies on the sun, rising as it does every day, helping me to record what I see, in all its jumbled, chaotic complexity, onto a frame of film. Where it sits, in its latency, to finally emerge in the world.

2020: 35 (Everything Is Gonna Burn, We'll All Take Turns)

Late summer and everything is on fire, or so it seems. Literally, fire is raging on bone dry land, consuming anything within its path. Metaphorically, of course, emotions are flaming, a virus is engulfing thousands, the planet is getting hotter, as are tempers. There was a small(ish) fire in the bosque last week, quickly contained and extinguished. I was drawn down there to see and smell for myself what the aftermath was like. There is a quiet beauty to the destruction of a fire. There is also a reminder of the cycle of life; birth, death, re-birth. Forests can recover, nature heals itself, if we can stay out of the way..

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There was a clearly defined line along which the fire in the bosque raged. Blackened trees and grasses hit a point where the destruction stopped. Flowers were still present, birds and bugs still floated in the air. The thicket of the bosque is dense in the summertime. One can easily get lost in the deep of it; sometimes you need to look to the sky to remember which direction is east or west. The fire, surprisingly, cleared a path to the river that I had never seen before. As I wandered out of the burn zone, I saw the waters of the Rio Grande through a now clearing in the twisted underbrush. Fire can take, but it can give as well.

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2020: 24 (Casual Transcendentalism)

Sometimes we need isolation, even if it’s from our own isolation. Sometimes we need to be somewhere with “no service” on our iPhones. Sometimes we need to sleep on the ground. Sometimes we need to see a thousand stars in a dark sky. I remind myself from time to time how blessed I am to be living in New Mexico. It certainly has its drawbacks, but the ability to jump in the car and drive four hours into the remote wilderness is a gift that I unfortunately don’t accept often enough.

My sweetie and I headed down to the southwest corner of the state last weekend, for three days in the Gila Wilderness. The area is enormous and mostly undeveloped; a wonderful mix of forest and desert. Having arrived on a Sunday afternoon, we were pleasantly surprised by the lack of other people around us. The campsite we found for the trip was almost completely devoid of other people. The first night, we heard an amazing array of bird calls, owl hoots, squirrel chirps, and most surprisingly, elk howls.

A day trip to the Gila Cliff Dwellings offered another chance to explore crowd-free. This sliver lining of the pandemic has been a gift to introverts like myself. It was at this point of the trip that we noticed the smoke from a nearby forest fire. We were concerned when the wind blew smoke in our direction, but we stayed the course for the final night, and with a late evening wind shift we were treated to another display of stars.

The final day was a chance to hike through the remains of a 2013 forest fire. It was both humbling and intriguing to walk through the remnants of such destruction. However, the forest was already in the obvious throws of rebirth and regeneration. Burnt trunks of dead trees were ringed by thousands of new saplings, flowers and grasses. Colorful butterflies flitted around fallen tree “snags.” It was the perfect metaphor for so many recent problems.

Nature heals itself… if we stay out of its way. We are part of a larger system of life on this small, blue dot. Humans are not the most significant form of life on the planet… I’m realizing more and more this point. Our lives are brief. Much shorter than that of the tall pines that stretch across the Gila. Much shorter than the age of the cliffside dwellings that stand to remind us of those who came before us. The burned hills reminded me…even in the midst of pain and destruction, fire and death…there are signs of life and regeneration. Sometime you just need to step away from the everyday and let enlightenment show itself to you.

2020: 14 (Back To The Bosque)

Spring is in the air, even if this is a spring like no other. Nature doesn’t pay much attention to the trials and tribulations of humans. The birds are chirping every morning, the plants and trees are sprouting, the temperature is warming, the days are getting lighter. Thankful for all of this, as I spend most of my time in my house, at my computer.

Working from home is a luxury, but it is also a challenge to set boundaries, and conference calls and answering emails, and Zoom sessions are tiring in their own way. So it is that time outside that really feeds me. I’ve started running in the mornings again. The park is almost always empty, a nice chill in the air that dissapates as the sun rises.

I also had the opportunity this week to head back to the bosque, along the Rio Grande, to continue my year-long project. Wandering the woods along the river, right after sunrise, was inspiring and restorative. The light was gorgeous, the ducks and geese where flying and calling overhead. Some trees and grasses were showing their green again, but the mighty cottonwoods have yet to come back to life and color. That will be a treat for another visit.

It is a great joy to shoot one roll of film, 72+ exposures via the half-frame camera, in one outing. It is liberating, especially not giving much concern to each individual image. Instead, treating the entire roll of film as its own thing. I look forward to the 5 more months I have on this project, and really look forward to making a zine of this work when the project is completed.

If you can, get outside and breathe the fresh air, feel the sun on your skin, and listen to the birds.

2020: 12 (In Like A Lamb, Out Like a Lion)

The old saying goes, if March comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion. This year, it looks like it’s going out as neurotic, agitated, finicky, dangerously unpredictable lion. I am grateful for a stable job, and the ability to work from home. It has made this past week somewhat more manageable and tolerable. I’ve kept my panic to a minimum. I’ve tried to incorporate time outdoors into my social distancing routine. It is true, nature heals.

I have plenty of projects to occupy my mind, and I am forging ahead with my next self-publishing project. Let the hand-binding and assembly commence. I hope you all stay safe and healthy. I hope you are able to maintain your sanity and stability through this challenge. I am convinced we’ll get through this, though having no idea how long the struggle will last. I’ll continue to shoot, to write, to think and to be curious.