One lazy fall day, on a road trip to Page, Arizona, I spied a distant sheet of curious clouds drifting my direction. I eased into a pullout, retrieved my camera gear and waited. What had caught my eye, a series of thin clouds with long streaking tails, was changing quickly, the tails swirling into each other in an almost whimsical fashion. I made and quickly rejected a number of exposures as the clouds slipped by overhead. Only after they had moved past me did I find a composition I felt conveyed their playful dancing nature.
It’s always fun to rediscover forgotten images. Especially ones you really like! I spent the first two days of 2016 tidying up a rather bloated Adobe Lightroom image library. In doing so, I rediscovered images I’d made of White River Falls in the winter of 2014.
White River Falls is an Oregon State Park which showcases the wild and scenic White River highlighted by a series of falls, one that plunges 90 feet, through a basalt lava basin. At the base of the falls, a hydropower plant that supplied the area with electricity between 1910 and 1960, lies in graffiti-rich ruins.
Since the park is only open Spring to Fall, I guess I was technically trespassing though there were no signs discouraging my entrance through an unlocked gate. It had been extremely cold that week and, having seen photos of the park, I suspected I might find an exceptionally icy landscape. I’d arrived late in the afternoon and initially explored the hydro plant ruins. Next I found some interesting ice patterns in an eddy below the falls but could not coax a composition out of the chaos. Before I knew it, evening was coming and it was getting very cold.
A smidgen disappointed, I set to climb back out of the canyon. Pausing at a makeshift viewpoint in the trail, I saw the falls had taken on a more mystical feel in winter’s evening light. A thin veil of dusk-lit clouds adding a luminous soft box effect to the scene. What I had disregarded as a mediocre, even cliché, photo a couple hours earlier, was now full of possibility. The low light required a longer exposure (~5 seconds) rendering the water a milky white, helping to both contrast and compliment the structured ice and rock textures framing the river’s path within the composition.
What a joyful little rediscovery to start the new year.
Somewhere in Zion. Eight stone concretions. Natural forms born of ancient dunes. A magic blend of iron oxide and quartz sand grains forged by water, compression, and time. Harder in composition, the stones resist weathering and are slowly revealed out of their host sandstone.
To discover a clean unobstructed grouping like these is rare. And, for me, reverential. Like experiencing a great work of art, whether painted, sculpted, written or performed, deep emotions surface. Those emotions can evoke contemplation, elevation, even transformation.
Zion, as a whole, exists on an elevated plain of experience. For people discovering the park for the first time, the canyons, the spires, even the cobalt blue skies evoke awe and inspiration. But within nature’s grand domain here, there are smaller, more nuanced nooks to experience and learn from. They require broader exploration, a slowing down, careful attention, intuition, even luck.
My evolution as a photographer has turned into a mission to celebrate these subtler subjects. I strive through composition, and ultimately, the photographic print, to convey found subject matter in a significant, meaningful way. My goal is simple yet challenging; to promote awareness and, ultimately, reverence for the less obvious in the world.
If I can inspire people to appreciate the magic of eight stone concretions, then maybe I can help cultivate a greater sense of openness and empathy in the world outside Zion.
It’s what, I believe, Art is meant to do.
Last week featured the Plein Air Invitational here at Zion National Park. In past years, I’ve largely ignored the proceedings choosing to focus, instead, on my photography as the week is usually punctuated by fall color. But, the featured artist’s image on the literature (accompanying this post) caught my attention. The painting of Johnson Mountain, by Colorado artist, Michelle Condrat, is composed as if standing right outside my front door. That familiarity prompted me to attend Michelle’s painting demonstration which led to an experience that really drives the focus of this post.
Arriving early, I caught the tail end of a Portland based painter’s, James McGrew’s, demonstration. His impressionistic painting of fall trees and the tall spires above the West Temple Basin were exceptional and I lingered, both enjoying and wincing at a variety of onlooker’s comments and questions. But Jeff’s measured responses resonated with me. I felt a certain kinship in his explanations and the approach I strive for in my own photography.
At one point, a rather gregarious older gentlemen asked, “So, when did you know you had the gift?” Jeff’s face (and probably mine) contorted briefly and then he regained his composure, smiled, and said to the effect, “Well, I’m not sure it is so much a gift. It’s actually taken a lot of time and work to be able to do what I’m doing here today.”
I couldn’t agree more. There seems to be two tracks of thought when assessing the talents of artists. It’s either a gift (usually inferred as God given) or a cultivated talent. In the past, I might’ve ignored the “gifted” perspective but now I find its pervasiveness problematic. To be “gifted” implies a special acumen has been bestowed to you, an absolute feature of your self. It suggests a certain divination, that, somehow, you are uniquely special. And it implies some people are gifted while others aren’t.
I reject this. Twenty plus years of experience informs me differently.
I now believe, fervently, we all are born with innate talent. The real challenge of life is in figuring out what our innate talents are and then orchestrating our lives to nurture, grow, and realize those talents. Often, individual talents will fly in the face of cultural norms or expectations, and, sadly, they’re too often squelched. What’s more, many talents may appear completely mundane when, in fact, they are essential to a healthy society.
How many innately talented moms, cooks, teachers, coordinators, machinists and, yes, artists have the fulfillment of their lives cut short by burying those talents in the roles, expectations and responsibilities a rigid society puts upon them? How many education insitutions actually strive to discover innate talent versus teaching to conformity and achievement goals?
So much human talent is, simply, wasted, destined to evaporate like virga on a hot desert plain.
Modern social and neurological sciences have become keenly interested in talent and its relationship to well being and success in life. The key? Time. It takes time to discover your talents. It takes nurturing. And the time needed begins in childhood. Children need time to daydream, to play, to explore, to be bored. To learn how to be with themselves. To have actual human interactions with other kids, not immersion or distraction in digital devices. They, and we, need to interact, intimately.
As an only child adopted by older parents, I now realize I was given the gift of time in childhood. I was allowed, forced even, to explore my home, my neighborhood, my environment. There are distinct memories where my self-awareness, my understanding of my presence in the world, were profound, mystic like in clarity. Fully engaged and present, I felt my life belonged to something greater and sensed I had some unique part to play in it. That, to me, is the discovery of self in a positively human vein, the realization that you are unique and may have something (a talent) to offer the world.
Now, as a remote parent to a teenage daughter living in a digital world, I struggle with the challenge of helping her understand the necessity of time, the need to gift it to yourself, to create the breathing room to really discover who you are, what you love, what you might become.
Imagine a world where talent, its discovery and development, is a resource valued as much as water or energy.
That would be time well spent.
Creative, that is.
For the last few years, despite an unprecendented environmental drought in the region, my photographic work here in Zion has enjoyed a vernal-like productivity.
Not this year.
Even writing, something the landscape routinely inspires me to, is a challenge.
I know I’m not supposed to question this. Creative droughts happen. Productivity is not assured. All you can do is do the work. Maybe offer up a few prayers. Anything else is just mental machinations disruptive to the sacred relationship between artist and muse.
Ha! If only it were that simple. My nature is ruled by a need to understand, to make sense of things. In my artistic pursuit, I strive to convey the depth of my understanding, visually, as photographs. That, I believe, is one of the primary jobs I’m here to do on this planet.
So, yeah, you could say all this has me a bit flummoxed.
I have a life coach, Jess Klein, a talented singer/songwriter based in Austin, Texas. We talk via Skype every couple weeks. She suggested I read a book, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. In it, he coins the principle enemy of creative productivity, Resistance. Resistance is essentially your egoisitc self, operating from a pleasure-based, fear-avoidance, materialistic foundation. Resistance is comfort, complacency, contrition. In an evolutionary sense, it’s the staus-quo. Everything is fine just the way it is. There’s no reason to pursue a higher calling, to realize your own unique individual potential. It’s herd mentality. Survive. Don’t die.
Personified, Resistance is a tricky devil. You may not even recognize it. It comes at you from all directions, manifested in fear, procrastination, avoidance, distraction, even self-destructive behavior. In short, those often glamourized behaviors we love to associate with the “struggling” artist.
But, the struggle is real, Pressfield argues. The key to overcoming it? Awareness. That may seem a tad bit obvious. Still, I have to agree with Pressfield, the deeper you’re embedded in resisting Resistance, the subtler, more cunning it seems to become.
So, I’m taking an inventory check. Is Resistance now at play in new ways I’m not aware of? My gut says “yes”. Now, the challenge is to figure out how. All while still doing the work I’m here to do.
So, this post is my first official step.
Fair warning, Resistance, I’m coming for you.
The first of a wave of heavy thunderstorms that dumped .95″ of rain in Zion Canyon, the video here shows the tail end of a moderate flash flood originating in Spry Canyon and cascading down into Pine Creek. Having long familiarized myself with this lower section of Pine Creek, I was able to safely scramble along the river and up to this exhilarating vantage point.
Over the years I have what has become a morning ritual here in Zion. A couple days a week I stroll along a stretch of the Virgin River attentively observing the sun’s light descend the western side of the canyon, painting magic in the cascades and ripples of the river.
The images I’ve made have evolved over the years. From the very literal, Liquid Light, to the more atmospheric, Velvet Reflections, to the image here, reflecting an ever-deepening understanding of the intimate play of light, water and flow. I can’t help but have gratitude for the lessons I’ve been taught by such aesthetic masters.
This is Keyhole Canyon, the photo taken from a sandstone ledge about 30 feet above the pine trees. The dark abyss is the slot canyon, a relatively short beginners-level slot popular with budding canyoneers. But in the late stormy afternoon of September 14, 2015, seven lives perished in the canyon, overtaken (with no way out) by a massive torrent of rain, mud and debris. The flash flood engulfed the canyon, its instant fury consuming and pushing bodies, later recovered, miles downstream.
I’ve come here to pay respect. My feelings are complicated. The basin immediately above Keyhole is a sanctuary to me, a pastel palette of sandstone swirls, sculpted stoneworks, and mystical patterns, masterworks of water, wind, and time. I’ve made many photographs here, important ones. It is a cherished chapel of solitude within the grand church of Zion.
The human story is one of tragedy, poor judgement, and egregious leadership. The sadness I feel is mixed with a certain disbelief that anyone would’ve led such a risky venture, putting friends in danger, when the weather forebode such calamity. Yet, as the local news pointed out, a group of three passed the seven at the first rappel, narrowly escaping the danger themselves. Good judgement appears to waver in the minds of time-strapped adventurists.
I’ve seen what the flood waters of Zion can do. I’ve stood a half mile across from the Temple of Sinawava when a dryfall turned raging funnel drenched me in pelting spray. The same storm swelled the Virgin River so high and fast, it rolled massive boulders under its soupy surface, the noise like a passing freight train, the ground rumbling beneath my feet. I could only bow in awe of such a display.
Inevitably, in this culture of salivating lawyers and their administrative prey, inquiries will be made and, in all likelihood, new regulations inked. To this, I say hooey. What is wild and dangerous should remain so with one large hand-scribbled (in blood) sign at the entrance: “You may die here friend. Proceed at your own risk”. I guess Edward Abbey is finally rubbing off on me.
From my ledge, I proceed around and down to the mouth of Keyhole peering down the 30 foot rappel into the cold dark pool of water that greets an initial and irreversible descent. After a memorial silence, I hike up a tributary creek bed, the signs of recent high waters subtly present but largely non-descript. Peaceful silence reigns in the soft waning light of dusk punctuated by footsteps and the distant floating calls of song birds.
This land I move through in quiet contemplation is the long view. Paid attention to, it teaches what you need to know. Here, there is no “I”. Only what is. And what is, is unattached, indifferent, essential. It is absolute. In beauty and fury.
And, for those unwilling to pay attention, it is often consequence. Tragic absolute consequence.