Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about why I make images. What’s my motivation to get up at unreasonable hours, explore dusty dirt roads that haven’t been touched in years, or hike for hours in the sun only to never take my camera out? The answers–of course–transcend photography, but I have been able to identify some discrete reasons why I make images. You can read part 2 (beauty) here.
Part 1: Perspective
“Good and evil do not exist in Nature.” — Spinoza
So far this year, I’ve landed in Sequoia National Park a couple of times. I didn’t really plan it this way, it just happened. Most people associate the park with its namesake giant trees, which are truly impressive. However, Sequoia’s backcountry is equally awe-inspiring; not only can you find the world’s largest trees here, but also the highest point in the contiguous United States. They’re just a short 72.2 mile hike from one another (a day hike for some–Leor Pantilat ran the High Sierra trail in just under 16 hours in 2012).
Whether you choose to focus on the forest or the trees, Sequoia’s landscape is big. On my second trip to the park recently, I was on a solo backpack via the Golden Trout Wilderness. While the scenery here isn’t as well known as some other iconic Sierra locales, the views of the Kahweahs, Chagoopa Plateau, and Great Western Divide are impressive, and the scale of the landscape quickly becomes apparent. While slightly less well-known, the landscape is still rugged. In late May at 11,000′, the temperatures were still chilly and snow flurries reminded me winter might not be willing to loosen its grip quite yet.
Although rugged, I’m hesitant to say that the landscape is unforgiving because it simply can’t be. It’s unresponsive. That’s, I think, why I came here. As Gretel Ehrlich wrote, I needed to be steadied by its indifference. So much of the time, our burdens in life feel very big. However in the grand scheme of things, things are really very different and those big problems maybe aren’t quite as insurmountable after all. Standing in the Sierra or any landscape, I’m reminded of my smallness–my place–in the world.
Paraphrasing Muir, going out is really going in, and there’s a unique comfort to be found in a visiting a place that simply just is.
I make images in places like this to regain my perspective, to remember that I’m part of something bigger. This isn’t to say that my worries and cares are diminished, but that’s the challenge: can we not make something more than it is, while at the same time not make it less than it was? Can the images we create answer this challenge? Can photography become a practice in self-awareness and in helping us to gain perspective?
Feeling small in a big landscape is the emotion that drives a large percentage of my work. I think it’s also behind the perpetual power of human-in-landscape images, which I certainly have a compulsion to shoot, even though I may never expect to sell them and may not know the people in them. I’m even tempted to argue that it’s the fundamental emotion of grand landscape photography, though it certainly gets inflected by other feelings such as joy, foreboding, tranquility or what have you.
I really like that sunbeam shot!
Remembering why we make images is harder as soon as it’s your living – everything gets wrapped up in utility – images for this ebook, or to promote that workshop etc. Rarely does one get to just be in the landscape and make images for the pure pleasure of immersion in the beauty of the countryside.
A great thoughtful article as always Greg and a very enjoyable read.
I agree, Alister. I’m in a fortunate position to be able to make most of my images for myself, but I’ve shot a few assignments lately in which I’ve fallen into this mode of being outside, having my camera on the tripod, and my checklist of requested images in my hand. While still better than a good day *in* the office, it’s not the same.
Wonderful thoughts and wonderful questions to contemplate, Greg. Humility is a prerequisite for personal growth.
Great and thoughtful post my friend, and some important and valuable questions.
After spending the last six months in the desert, my response to making photos of wild places is to put my camera away and just drink in what’s around me. To me, and I speak only for myself, to try to capture the wild in an image is as futile as trying to bring home some mountain air in a jar.
This tendency has gotten so entrenched that I gave away my DSLR to someone who might actually use it.
A great post and thoughts Greg. I know for myself, every time I visit an area, no matter how grand or how small it is, I’m reminded in some way of my place in this world, and how wild it still can be. Perspective sums it up perfectly, and much like yourself, is a large reason behind why I create images.
Thought provoking post Greg. It is interesting to think about the “something bigger” aspect, but sometimes the conclusion is my own insignificance.
Thanks, Mark. I hope I didn’t make too much of an allusion in my post: the “something bigger” I wrote about merely suggested that I am very insignificant. When I remember that, it’s easier to put things in perspective…
Many thanks for all the comments everyone, I appreciate them!
“Standing in the Sierra or any landscape, I’m reminded of my smallness–my place–in the world.”
Important words, Greg. This is why many of us go out. Nonetheless, it takes a certain sensitivity and sensibility to feel as you describe in nature. With the programming we get today, or even without it, many people are either oblivious to this simple lesson of the land, or they are afraid of it, afraid of feeling small, afraid of losing control, afraid of being overwhelmed by forces greater than themselves. Thus they are destructive, indifferent or they make a mess, subtlely signing their signature and leaving their mark. Hopefully the more people go out, the more sensitive to nature’s learning they become.