Spring is in full swing here in the Southeast, and before the heat and humidity of the Tennessee Summer overwhelm my senses and my job in the ice industry gets too busy, I thought it would be a good exercise for me to highlight a few photos from the last year or so that speak to my soul.

It’s been too long since I’ve taken a good look at my photos to really grasp what they mean in the context of my portfolio, to make sure they still have an important place in it. I used to do this all the time, but I've been caught up with other aspects of photography and life lately. It's important for me to get back to reviewing my work every year or so, so I can clear out the clutter and put emphasis on the images that still resonate.

Sometimes there are no logical words or cohesive thoughts to describe them, because a lot of what I do is by feeling alone, so I’ve omitted many images. However, on this page I have tried to describe how some of my favorite images were conceived and why I still feel a strong connection to them.

This simple scene is easy to overlook, and for many months I had done exactly that as I explored the area all around it. This late Spring / early Summer morning, however, soft light trickled from over the top of this landmark boulder, and I noticed the leaning tree creating a nice diagonal through the frame. It was interesting because the oval-shaped portion of exposed sandstone, to me, resembled a face being pressed upon by the tree, like it was trying to peer out but got stopped by something uncontrollable. There was a nice balance to the elements in the photograph, and at the time I was still enjoying the coolness of the early hours.

Three months later, my father would undergo open heart surgery, including a bypass of his diagonal artery. This file sat unrealized for a few months as I processed the experience of helping my mother for two weeks in Cleveland, and the very real possibility of having to say goodbye to my father. So, naturally and slowly, the name for the photo arrived only after I had returned home and had given myself time to review my backlog. There are a lot of parallels to Dad’s surgery, including that imposition of something “pressing”. It’s an insignificant, pedestrian scene by popular photographic standards, but it nonetheless speaks from a place of personal significance.

Fall photography is of course very appealing to anyone with a camera, and this past Autumn I found this new location to be completely irresistible in the early mornings. I visited every chance I got. I wandered and explored and made coffee in the still, misty quiet. Many forests on my favorite mountain, and throughout the Southeast, are cluttered with brambles, vines, saplings and dead fall, but not this one (at least to such an extreme degree). I could actually move around freely as the sunlight made its entrance through the fog.

Naming photos can be an engaging exercise, and I’ve come to enjoy incorporating aspects of my life that have nothing to do with photography, geographic locations, or even subjects. On this occasion, something about the coffee in my hands reminded me of the flavor of amaretto, and the colors and tones of the forest seemed to fit that recollection perfectly. It struck me how something as simple as a flavor, or any single sensation, could evolve into a meaningful title or theme. I am still warmed to my core by the memory of this experience, and look forward to more relaxing explorations in this small section of woods.

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer is an incredible work, and is one of my favorite books of all time. As a people, we have truly lost our way with the land, but I believe we can still learn quite a lot from the teachings of indigenous populations who loved and cared for it centuries before European settlers would arrive and eventually deplete it. The Original Instructions have the power to help us remember our reciprocal relationship with the land, how to live as better stewards, and truly stand up for its care through everyday actions.

I am convinced this deep connection resides in our very DNA. We hold both spiritual and biological connections to our home. This small scene of fallen pine needles huddled together on the surface of dark water speaks to my heart of our ancient programming to honor the sacred in our daily lives. It’s a simple concept - taking care of the land that provides literally everything we need - but modern society’s push for ever more has caused us, by design, to forget that crucial relationship.

We all have dreams, hopes, aspirations. We go about our lives trying to ignore the loftiest of them as we grind out “a living”, reluctantly agree to do things we do not truly wish to do, block out uncomfortable thoughts, and spend the majority of our time looking forward to times that do not resemble the present. These dreams lurk just beyond our perception, comfortably out of view, until sleep grants them form and structure so that our primitive brains can make some kind of sense of them.

During my walks in the woods, very often, I am still in the process of waking up - half asleep, half awake, vaguely aware of the physical things in my path as well as whatever transpired in my mind while I slept. Dreams from the night before seem to tug back at me, slowing my step so that I can bear witness to both the real and the imagined.

Japanese culture has had an indelible influence on the work of artists all over the world since the country opened its borders to outsiders in the mid-1800s. Vincent van Gogh, for example, collected Japanese woodblock prints, and even tried his hand at painting in the style of ukiyo-e (“Pictures of the Floating World”). My mother’s family is Japanese, so from an early age I’ve always felt an appreciation for the island nation’s history, art, and technological influences on the western world.

The traditional tea ceremony is one of the most well-known and respected aspects of Japanese life, passed down through generations over many centuries. In this scene I was struck by the central yellowing pin oak leaf surrounded by green grasses underneath the water, and the many encircling red-orange leaves of its shared species. There is a sense of togetherness combined with a subtle, elegant formality that invites me to rest my eyes between periodic glances around the frame. The darkened water evokes the warmth of tea, infused with the essence of countless decomposing leaves that have steeped for weeks beneath the surface.

After another hot, humid Summer in East Tennessee, I found myself looking forward to cooler conditions and changing colors. One evening I happened to remember this peculiar stone feature I had visited a couple years prior, about an hour from home on my favorite mountain. The next morning, heavy rain became a thin, pleasant mist that cooled me down after an hour of hiking to find these embedded natural pavers once again. The ground in this area is made up primarily of fallen pine needles and moss, and the overnight rain gave it a spongy, springy feel as I searched for the best position for my tripod.

To my eye, there is a hopeful, reassuring feel to this scene and another simple lesson: sometimes there is, in fact, a path forward even though realizing it can take a while to remember. A small glimmer of change, even a single breath of cooler, fresh air, can be all it takes to get going again. Putting myself in the path of inspiration, however difficult or toilsome, is something I want to always remember how to do.

This location is fairly popular for its waterfall and creek, and is very close to town, so for the most part I have avoided visiting to make images. I just can’t get into a lasting flow state with people around, regardless of how nice and understanding they may be. August 22 was a Thursday, though, so I spent most of my morning in quiet solitude with only the sounds of the waterfall, birds and squirrels as company.

I photographed the main waterfall from different angles, but even though some of those images turned out well I couldn’t quite connect with it in a creative or meaningful way. Instead, I decided to get closer to see what kinds of geometry and texture I could find, and this feature jumped out to me immediately. Worn by water, and decades or centuries of freezing and thawing, this small piece of limestone boasts swoops and angles that reflect the blue sky above and shadows from underneath. In its features I see something akin to an ancient Bronze Age mask. Maybe I could use a kind of mask to make art, and find more comfort being my true self, in the presence of strangers.

My creative process over the past two years, put very simply, has been an exercise in meditation and mindfulness. It may sound strange, but I actually view my images as emotions, or at least direct manifestations of what I feel during their creation or while processing them later on. We process our emotions, and I believe there is an equation, however crude and unscientific, when it comes to processing our work.

To remember the present is to observe our thoughts and feelings, and consider them nearly as objects that can be identified and even labeled. With practice, they can be exalted if they are helpful and positive, or subdued if they are harmful, unhelpful, or negative. Shedding judgment of my thoughts and emotions has been one of the most difficult challenges of my own mindfulness practice, but I believe I have made significant strides over the last twelve months.

Photography as a creative tool, and companion on my path of personal growth and development, has proven invaluable. I look forward to continuing down this road for as long as it provides me with an effective way to process my emotional life and the chaotic times we live in.

A brief look back

It’s Not About Understanding