It was not a conscious decision, and not something that I fully realized what was happening at the time. But I found that I was the one who had the camera, and I was the one who brought it out for birthday parties and carried it along on family vacations. I used to joke that I had gotten a good camera so that if there were any problems with the photos, I knew it wasn’t the camera’s fault. And I was content with that for a number of years. But one day I decided I wanted to be smarter than the camera, instead of the other way around. So I really worked on educating myself on photography. With improved knowledge and skills comes improved ability. And with improved ability comes improved enjoyment. So it kind of fed into itself. And I’ve always been involved in art in some way, so it’s not surprising that I gravitated towards photography as an art form.
My approach is very much a “what I find, as I find it”. But that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily “as I see it.” I specialize in infrared and night sky photography, both of which fascinate me because the camera can see things in ways that the human eye can’t. I love exploring that, and being inspired by what the camera shows me. And I love exploring the artistic choices I can make that influence how the camera sees things. For me, it’s not enough to just point the camera at something interesting. I look at it and ask myself, “how can I make art out of this?”
It is an amazing feeling to be out in the landscape, especially when I know I am the only one there. It feels like for that one moment, I have it all to myself. It’s an intensely personal feeling that gives me a deeper connection with the landscape. And it is that feeling that I want to share with others, so that they may feel that sense of wonder that I feel when I am in these places, surrounded by natural beauty. I want them to feel that sense of solitude and quiet reflection that I find to be so restorative. And I want them to understand the need to protect and preserve these natural spaces. One way I can do that is to use my art to promote awareness of light pollution and how it harms not only wildlife and the environment, but our own health, as well.
When I look back at my images from Great Basin, I find that many of my favorites were ones that I shot during twilight. Night photographers usually avoid shooting during twilight, preferring full night for better visibility, definition, and colors of the Milky Way and stars. And while I had made greater effort this last year to explore twilight, I don’t think I really succeeded until now.
One of those was a shot of a bristlecone pine framed against stars in the fading light of twilight. Great Basin is known for these ancient trees which can live for thousands of years at high elevations, and I was not going home without seeing them. But a winter road closure meant the only way to get to the trailhead was to first hike up the mountain. I camped up there for two nights. I started hiking out to the bristlecones late that first afternoon after setting up camp, but I turned around part-way when it became clear I wouldn’t make it in time. Although the snow wasn’t very deep, it had slowed my progress throughout the day. I set out earlier the next afternoon so I would have plenty of time for scouting while it was still light. And once I’d found my spot, I spent several hours there, watching the sun sink and the stars come out, with the only sound being the wind as it softly caressed the landscape. It was an amazing experience, being among those ancient living things.
Another one that surprised me was my shot of the pictographs. It didn’t seem like a particularly impressive shot at the time compared to some of my others — it’s not big and flashy. But it takes a small moment, a moment among many that slip by unnoticed every day, and it makes it noticed. And I think that’s part of being an artist — it’s discovering these moments that are there, if we would only take the time to notice them. So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when it turned up as a consistent favorite among the rangers, because it communicates a connection with those who came before, through art.
I was one of the artists selected for the Artist in Residence program at the park, which the Foundation supports.
Years ago I had read an online article on Great Basin National Park. It touted the park’s features, such as the glacier, alpine lakes, and caves, as well as it still being largely under the radar of the crowds that fill parking lots at other parks, which made it doubly attractive. So I printed the article and filed it away for a future trip. As time passed, I forgot about it. And so it wasn’t until after I had returned from my residency, and was filing my notes from that trip, that I came across the article once again. I took a quick read-through. They were right — it was definitely a hidden gem. And I am so glad I had the opportunity not only to visit, but to really get to know the place.
I know how fortunate I am to have had the opportunity to serve as Artist in Residence at Great Basin and other National Parks. These programs are very competitive and for each one that I have been selected, I know there are many, many more artists who were not. To put it into perspective, if you were to take all the applications from one year, and give everyone a chance, it would take decades to go through all of them. I feel that weight, yes, but I also find it pushes me to excel, to go beyond what I thought I was capable of, because I know I have been given an opportunity that others weren’t.
But more than that, being an Artist in Residence has allowed me to catch a glimpse behind the scenes of what it takes to make these parks run, and a chance to get to know the people that make that happen. And what I’ve found is that it’s not just a job for these folks; they really care about their parks, and each other. It’s a family. And to have had the chance to witness that, is really something special.
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