Random Photo Notes, Vol. 7
These are a few notes I have written about some of my favorite photos. They can range from social media posts to descriptions on my homepage, even handwritten notes made in the field. They are not in chronological order.
I’ve always found it helpful to put words to my images, whether in the form of scribbling exposure settings in a notebook or writing about composition.
If photography can be partly considered the organization of the visible chaos that surrounds us, then I believe writing can be somewhat about taming the invisible and internal.
Looking back on my notes has always helped me to reflect on my technical and creative progress, as well as on my journey through life.
Dark Horse, 2/14/23
Lichen spots and gritty texture made this small section of sandstone appealing to me, and waning sunlight brought it to life. I’d been out on the creek for most of the afternoon photographing moving water when this interesting formation jumped out at me. For me, rocks are fun to photograph because they are all unique and there is little to nothing to provide a sense of scale. I love the mystery they can provide.
Daydreaming, 1/14/23
The winter sun can do miraculous things to extremities of branches, delicate grasses and shrubs. In winter a large field on top of my favorite nearby mountain features acres of dead brown grasses that glow orange when the light hits from a low angle. This weathered tree, free of bark after years of decomposition, reflected pastel blues from the clear sky overhead. The contrast of color plus the Y shape of the tree drew me in. I tried a variety of focal lengths and angles for about 45 minutes, as the light shifted and clouds passed by, until this composition came to me. I flipped the image horizontally to provide a more natural left to right direction, but did not do much more to the image. I loved the sprinkles of gold created by the grasses and the degree of texture throughout. I imagined a person laying in the grass staring up at the clouds, in a state of relaxation.
The Uncanny Valley, 2/19/23
We have plenty of big, amazing views close to home but I rarely get an opportunity to shoot one that hasn’t already been photographed hundreds of times. This vantage point has been sitting in the back of my mind for years as I’ve driven underneath it going and coming from my favorite place to explore.
For the past couple of years, most of my hiking and exploring has taken place on this mountain and I’ve grown familiar with its wildlife, contours, creeks, waterfalls, meadows, overlooks and trees.
Morning light is hard to beat, and I knew it would fall on this mountainside beautifully due to the direction it faces. I solo camped at this spot and enjoyed a peaceful morning of coffee and photography, free to explore the area and find interesting subjects as the sun illuminated the landscape before me. Several deer walked through my campsite as I stood with my camera close to the cliff’s edge, and they didn’t seem to mind my presence. This might be my favorite location for photography that I’ve found so far.
To have finally made a grand scenic image of the mountain’s most dramatic facade feels special. And it’s a nice departure from my usual slow approach to making images of smaller, quieter scenes.
This was the definition of a planned, timed photo pursuit - an approach I’ve generally steered away from. I found a faint 4 mile animal trail to roughly where I thought a good vantage point would be, and spent a couple afternoons scouting on very steep terrain. I camped on location so all I would have to do is roll out of my tent and start shooting. This one was tough, physically and logistically, and the difficulty surely exaggerates my perception of the quality of the image, but I don’t care - it’s a meaningful photo to me and that’s all that really matters.
I named this image after a fascinating theory posited in 1970 by Japanese professor of robotics Masahiro Mori. I plan to write more about it, but for now I’ll say that I find the rise of AI and artists’ reception of it pretty fascinating.
