Conspiracy of Cartographers

Link to Kickstarter campaign here.Hello! And welcome back to us all! I’ve been a bit absent, haven’t I? There’s a completely reasonable and logical explanation for this. Writer’s block. I’m sure I have things to say about something, but I just don’t have the words to say them. I don’t know why.I’ll sit down to write or to come up with ideas, and there’s just nothing there. Nothing in my head. I can talk and talk about various things – I was just on the Negative Influence podcast and had a bunch of stuff to say! You should check it out. It was a great conversation! But when it’s just me and the keyboard or me and a pen, I’m rather empty.Sure, I could push through it and just say whatever b******t, but I’m not really in the business of “making content,” so when I don’t have something to say, I’d much rather just not say anything.Which means that I have something to say, doesn’t it?Well, I’ll say it.There’s a BookFor the past few years, I’ve focused a lot of my photography on small, often abandoned, cemeteries through the West and Midwest. I’ve finally decided to put together a book of some of these photos.The book is titled: Where the Plow Cannot Find Them. And right now, if you’re listening to this in mid-November of 2025, I have a Kickstarter campaign going to help release the book.While I’ve had writer’s block, I haven’t had photobook block. The thing is ready to go to print; I just need it to find an audience. And that’s where you come in. If you’re willingly listening to this, then there must be something about my photography or words that you like or can at least tolerate. Thank you for that. And fortunately, this book has both.So here I sit, still wracked with writer’s block, trying to come up with something to say that’s more than “hey, buy my book, I bet you’ll like it.I guess I can tell you a little about the book itself.This book contains 75 photographs of gravesites and 75 stories about the photographs and the people buried there. I am based out of Washington, and so many of them come from this state. Others come from Montana, Idaho, North Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota, Kansas, Pennsylvania, Utah, Wyoming, and Oregon. Future books will feature more and different states, but Washington will always likely have a special focus for me (if for no other reason than it’s easier).It is the culmination of thousands of miles, hundreds of cemeteries, countless photographs, and months of research. It is also (hopefully) the first volume of many.Over my years of traveling and exploring the backroads and towns of the West and Midwest, I continually came across cemeteries. Sometimes I’d stop and look around, maybe take a few pictures. But as time went on, I stayed a little longer, I looked at the names, the dates, and imagined stories. Finally, I brought along my 4x5 camera, and the cemeteries became my main subject.My interest started as something on the surface. The stones themselves, as well as their settings, were interesting. The decay, the preservation, the way they lay upon the land, and how they sometimes sank into it, all caught my eye.When I returned home and wished to share a few, I was at a loss for what to say about them. This is where the research came into things. After that, I had stories, sometimes detailed and sprawling, other times hardly anything more than names.Why Pioneers?Most people who enjoy walking, exploring, and photographing cemeteries visit the large ones, the famous ones. Cemeteries like Laurel Hill in Philadelphia or Hollywood Forever in Los Angeles get most of the visits. There’s Savannah’s Bonaventure Cemetery and Trinity Church in New York, as well. Their beauty as parks cannot be overstated.However, the cemeteries I visit have mostly been forgotten by all but locals and the few family members that remain. They are small, often unkempt, and along quiet backroads or in farmers’ fields.They contain the graves of pioneers, poor folks, and the working class. Anyone who could afford to be buried somewhere else usually was. These are the cemeteries of ghost towns and farm communities.Most were founded in the same way: A few pioneer families established homesteads on various parcels of land. Before long, a family member would die. Maybe it was the grandfather who came along. Often it was one of the children. Then, one of the farmers would give a small piece of their land to make into a cemetery. The community would grow and expand, and the cemetery would expand along with it.Then, finally, the pioneers would move on, selling their land to someone who was staying, and they’d leave their dead behind.I frequent and enjoy pioneer cemeteries over those in cities or towns. Many are abandoned and deserve a little recognition. The people who are memorialized on the stones I photograph have stories, and they deserve to be remembered.These pioneer cemeteries are often secluded and desolate. I live most of my life in a large city full of far more people than necessary. When I leave the city, I search for solitude. Few places provide more solitude than a pioneer cemetery in the middle of nowhere.The MissionI’ve spent so many hours photographing these small cemeteries. They’ve grown to be almost a second home for me. I feel comfortable in them, I feel a sort of mission, like this is my calling (if callings even exist).This writer’s block thing often comes hand-in-hand with photographer’s block (or whatever we’re calling it). I haven’t picked up a camera since August. I’m always okay with this. Creativity comes when it comes, and if I force it, then photography ends up feeling like a job rather than something I love.While I don’t miss photography when I’m not feeling creative enough to shoot something, I do miss cemeteries. I could go to one of the city cemeteries in Seattle, but there’s just no character to them. There’s no soul there. City cemeteries contain massive and beautiful stone monuments. There are thousands upon thousands of sculpted headstones, each worth its own photograph. The layout, the planning, and the landscaping of these cemeteries are all works of art. But what I long for is that small pioneer cemetery, overrun with grasses, down a lonely dirt road.There are places that I miss, that I long for, when I’m so many miles away from them. I miss my hometown, of course. I miss the coulees and sagebrush of eastern Washington, I miss the prairies of Kansas. And, maybe most of all, I miss these abandoned cemeteries.We often take photographs to remember a time or a person. We want to capture a sliver of the feeling we had in the moment. This is one of the reasons I photograph cemeteries. I love them so much - I don’t even have fancy words to describe it. It’s just a raw feeling down in my gut.I put this book together for me. I understand that a book of graves isn’t really for everyone. These hours spent among the burials might be a source of calm for me, but it might not be easily translatable.When I photograph a gravesite, my focus isn’t on making it palatable for the viewer. I’m not concerned about what will get likes on Instagram or look good as a print on a wall. My only concern is to capture how I’m feeling. This is true, of course, for every photo I take. But it’s somehow more true with cemetery photography.I know that most of the other photos I take – the ones of small towns or abandoned homes – can be and are enjoyed by a bunch of folks. Get me in front of an old house with a dark sky, and people will actually pay money for that print (this actually happened). But the grave of some child who died of smallpox in 1890? That’s not such an easy sell.But that’s where I’d rather be with my camera.The StoriesWhen I’m in the cemetery, I have almost no sense of a story. There’s just names and dates. Sometimes I can piece a little narrative together (like when a mother died in childbirth), but the details must come later.This book contains stories for each of the photos, for each of the graves, and the people memorialized on the stones. The research for these stories was necessarily rudimentary.My main source was, of course, findagrave.com. There, a user community photographs and fills in details of those buried in nearly every cemetery. Often they include death certificates, obituaries, and lists of family members.My other source is the plethora of old newspapers available on newspapers.com. Sometimes there’s not much to learn. Other times, there’s far more than I can use. Usually, it falls somewhere in the middle.When I take the photo, I never know what the story will hold. Obviously, it’s almost always a sad ending. But I do try to stay centered on their lives rather than their deaths.I’ve shared two of these stories on Substack already. In the episode titled “However It Happened, James Was Dead.” Both came out of the cemetery at Spring Ranch, Nebraska, and both stories are retold in full in this book.I also give as full an account as possible of Poker Jim, a cowboy from North Dakota. Oh, that involves a blizzard and a frozen corpse crashing a poker game. You’ll have to read it in the book; it’s a fun little tale that might even be true.And while it has some longer stories, each photograph is accompanied by a quick little tale.For instance, there’s Frankie Snyder, the child of a family originally from my home state.Frankie Snyder was born in March 1879 in Oregon. Her father, Allen Porter Snyder (AP to his friends), was, like many Snyders, born in Pennsylvania.At the age of 32, he married a woman with the delightful name of Missouri Officer. Friends called her Zude.According to Zude’s obituary, she was “born in a tent on the plains, August 13, 1845, at a place known as Ash Hollow, Wyoming,” though it was actually Three Island Crossing in Idaho. Either way, she was born on the Oregon Trail as her parents and their eight (now nine) children emigrated from Missouri. They were part of a wagon train led by Stephen Meek, and were part of the “Lost Wagon Train”.Zude and AP settled on a farm ne

I took in the Evergreen State Fair in Snohomish County, Washington, last week. I walked the midway, avoided the games, and ate too many fries and too much cotton candy. There’s always some mixed feelings swimming around in my head about the animal exhibits. I avoided the cows, but took in the sheep. Saw a bunch of horses, and rolled my eyes at the dogs. I followed half a dozen “cat” signs with arrows only to discover that the cats were somehow not there that day.Each of these stalls and pens had various awards and ribbons attached to them. Some won for showmanship, others won for driving; there were ribbons and plaques, banners and rosettes for a dizzying array of categories and classes.While the baby goats were adorable (I booped noses with one!), and the Clydesdales were intimidating and majestic, the sprawling mass of other things that were judged was a bit overstimulating.In the Arts & Crafts hall were ceramics, metalworking, various miniatures, and some diaramas. The quilts took up most of the room of the sewing hall, and they were impressive feats of bed-size, hand-sewn artistry.This sat next to your very traditional county fair food: pies, cakes, breads, and jams. There were also homemade beverages and some of the best-looking produce I’ve ever seen.Each of these items won some sort of award. Most had blue “First Place” stickers on them, while others had ribbons for “Best in Class.” Some ribbons made no sense at all to an outsider (Reserve Champion? Sweepstakes?), but it seemed like everyone did really well. Everyone got something. Good job!And finally, an entire side of the huge exhibition hall was dedicated to photography. While I don’t know much about pigs or rabbits, bell peppers or apple pies, I do know a bit of something about photography.The age groups for the photographers ranged from the youngest (ages four through nine) to senior citizens. There were also categories for Master Level and Advanced, though those designations were vague and essentially unexplainable.So how do the judges at the Evergreen State Fair judge things like Aunt Ethel’s blueberry pie? Does the rabbit with the fuzziest tail win? The cow with the best moo? And, most importantly for us, how do they judge a photograph?I don’t want to get lost in the weeds here, but technically, they use one of several systems that take into account expected standards (called the Danish Method). Sometimes they will judge on a curve (this is the American Method). There’s nothing objective or set in stone here. It’s really just the opinion of the judges. It’s a mood, a vibe.Most of this is pretty low stakes. It’s bragging rights and maybe $25. There are generally no entry fees for county fairs (except for livestock), so the risk/reward is almost nonexistent. Of course, that does make one wonder why we do it at all. The way these contests are judged is nearly random. It’s a lottery. So why do we insist upon it mattering?The Photography ExhibitionThis wasn’t my first time visiting a county fair photography contest. Here, you’ll find photos of every kind taken by folks who are just happy to have their photo up in public, where it can be seen.Like with the cows, the cakes, and quilts, these photographs had been judged, and ribbons and stickers adorned them all. You could win best in your category (and there are a lot of categories), best in your age group, best in show, and even sweepstakes (which still made no sense to me).All of this was confusing since it seemed like nearly every photograph won something, and usually, 1st place. I asked the woman overseeing the photographs, but she just explained it to me just as I explained it to you, which solved nothing for me and will now solve nothing for you. But that’s fine.Competition is nothing new. Our drive to compete for fun existed before humans, neanderthals, and even great apes playing throwing games (where you toss something and see who can toss it the farthest).I don’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with that; whether it’s a foot race or drag racing, I get it. Sure, it can be taken too far, but seeing if your ‘69 Chevy with a 396, Fuelie heads, and a Hurst on the floor can outrun the other guy’s on the quarter mile is just good American fun. Hell, I used to watch the Amish drag racing their buggies. As humans, we just love to race stuff.And the whole thing is very simple: if you are quicker, you win. There’s really no debate; it’s purely objective. The “judging” makes sense. The same goes for most games. From football to roller derby, the team that scores the most points wins.At the fair, when I asked about the photography judges and whether they were local professionals, one of the volunteers told me that all the photos were judged “by Rick.” "Is Rick a photographer?” I asked.“Oh, he does many things, maybe he takes some pictures too,” came the reply. She then told me that Rick wasn’t here now, but he’s “probably in the pig barn, just look for the guy in the overalls.”I did visit the pig barn, but none of the overall-wearing fellows were Rick, but all of this got me thinking: Just what the hell are we doing?Incredibly Short History of Photography ContestsJudged competitions at county fairs date back to the early 1800s (and likely well before that in some shape or form). When photography became more accessible to the masses in the late 1800s, many fairs folded them into the competitions like so much Crisco into pie crust.In 1896, Charles Emsley and Dr. Lombard were the “lucky ones in the photography contest” at the Western Montana Fair in Missoula. A local paper reported that “Mr. Emsley will wear the gold medal till next fair.”But county fairs never had a monopoly on photography contests. The La Crosse Camera Company out of Wisconsin held a competition in 1895, advertising that they were giving away $1000 in gold to the winners. $200 for first place, $100 for second, $30 for third, and so on. [$1000 in 1895 is about $40,000 in today’s money.] The only catch was that you had to take the picture with one of their cameras (the La Crosse camera was a 4x5 box camera). The ad ran in papers all across the Midwest and East Coast (though a winner seems never to have been announced).Even newspapers got in on the act. In 1957, the New England Associated Press awarded its “Best in Show” prize to Charles Merrill for his picture entitled “But ‘Twas Too Late,” showing two men removing the body of a drowning victim from the ocean.Since then, it’s pretty much been the same – low stakes, low rewards (apart from the gold that possibly never existed) and essentially bragging rights.Juried Shows Are Just Photo ContestsOf course, photo contests aren’t the only photo contests. There are also juried shows, which are a little bit different, though still very much photo contests. Typically, juried shows cost money to enter, and the selection process is more rigorous. In the end, however, the awards are typically small, and it still comes down to bragging rights.Yet, juried shows are held in much higher esteem than county fairs, which is why they’re called “juried shows” and not “photography contests.” Juried shows didn’t start with photography; they actually come from the art world.Still, they seem to have been amplified by the art schools of the 1920s, and were not always received positively. In 1929, the Chicago Art Institute held a juried show whose jurors received so much ire and criticism over their curation that they considered obtaining police protection since the public was, according to the Chicago Tribune, “sufficiently upset to fall upon the offending members eye, tooth, and nail.”While the paper was almost certainly speaking in hyperbolics (after all, this was Chicago during the era of Al Capone), the jurors, as today, were acting as gatekeepers, and the artists were fed up with it.If you ask galleries that put on juried shows, they extoll such benefits to the artists as networking, credibility, and the ever-important exposure. This is the same kind of exposure that musicians rightly balk at when offered low or no-paying gigs.And to be clear, a juried show isn’t just a low-paying gig; it’s a gig the artist pays for. Each juried show has entry fees, typically around $25 to $50. That naturally doesn’t secure you a spot; it merely puts you in the running. The competition here isn’t just with the winning, but with the entering.One of the “best” bits of advice given to artists considering submission to juried shows is to avoid experimental work or work that the juror doesn’t like. Here, you are essentially trying to please a single important person rather than your typical audience (or even yourself). What the jurors want or enjoy is the only thing that matters.Gatekeeping and DemocracyWith the advent of digital photography and social media, photography was heralded as finally being democratized. This was largely true. Apart from algorithms controlling what we see, the barrier to entry, even for film photography, is incredibly low. Like in the early 1900s, anyone could pick up a camera. But now, anyone can get their work seen by dozens and even thousands of people who would otherwise never see it.This growth allows not only for novices to quickly learn their craft, but also for experimentation and innovation. These are the two things juried shows purposely dissuade, guiding the photographer to submit their “strongest” work, which here means work that will be strong enough to beat out the work of other photographers. Immediately, the vision of a strong photograph roundhouse kicking another dances through my head, and while I’m woefully overanalyzing the language here, the whole thing is a fairly absurd idea.But keep in mind that everything is subject to the whims and tastes of the juror keeping that gate. The whole process can be stifling in some pretty important ways, urging the artist to be reactive rather than creative.When photo zines started coming into their own a while back, there was some disagree

Disclaimer: Even the mere thought of the demise of Kodak makes some folks in the film community have big feelings. I’d like to state for the record (or whatever) that I don’t think Kodak is going out of business. I’m sure they’ll be around for decades to come and will never let us down. They’ll never discontinue your favorite emulsion or raise film prices. They’ll always love us and respect us, and follow us on Instagram forever. They just had a slight financial malfunction. But, uh, everything’s perfectly all right now. We’re fine. We’re all fine here, now, thank you. How are you?Last week (meaning the middle of August 2025) big news hit the film community and the Wall Street Journal: Kodak was going out of business! Well sort of not really. Kodak was apparently having yet another existential crisis.Kodak released a statement attached to an earnings report detailing their lack of earnings and highlighting their nearly half a billion dollars of debt. They wrapped it all up by declaring “these conditions raise substantial doubt about the company’s ability to continue as a going concern.”Now, this may seem like the initial rumblings that Kodak might be on its way to going out of business. But no, that’s not at ALL what they were saying, you stupid idiots, what’s wrong with you?By “these conditions raise substantial doubt about the company’s ability to continue as a going concern,” they didn’t actually mean that there was any doubt at all about their ability to continue as a going concern. In fact, it’s the opposite, obviously. And why would you think otherwise?To be clear, in the business world, no longer being a “going concern” doesn’t mean you’re immediately going out of business. It means that you’re probably going out of business in the near future. It’s night and day, okay? When a company is no longer a going concern, liquidation is almost inevitable, usually within a year’s time.While Kodak told investors and board members of their financial woes, they really didn’t want the public to think of it in such harsh terms. Also, their stocks tanked by like 20%.In classic Trump-like fashion, Kodak blamed everyone else, issuing a follow-up press release they called a “Statement Regarding Misleading Media Reports.”When I first read this real and official press release on some random guy’s Instagram post, I thought it was a parody or hoax. It was so poorly written (let alone conceived) that I figured no multi-million dollar company with a 145-year history would ever release this in any official way.I was wrong. Kodak is this company. Kodak and their decades of shockingly bad business decisions would absolutely release an official statement where they wander aimlessly between talking about themselves in the third person (as “Kodak”) and referring to some collective “we” while blaming “the media” for reporting that Kodak might go out of business after Kodak said “we will probably no longer be a going concern.” It’s baffling and just so dumb in so many ways that I’m tired of writing about it.Kodak was supposed to hold a big meeting about this on Friday, August 15th, but as of the time of this recording, they haven’t issued any details about that. Maybe by the time you’re reading this, they’ve reversed all their financial woes, re-released Kodachrome, and given every film shooter $100 just because they like us so much. Who knows? The future is impossible to predict.Anyway, now that we know for sure that Kodak will be around forever, let’s talk about life after Kodak. If Big Yellow can’t pull out of this financial tailspin, what will we, the film community, do? How will we survive without Portra and HC-110, without Tri-X and whatever they call their TMax developer?This would be the worst-case scenario. Kodak is gone. Now what?What Is Kodak?First, let’s talk about what Kodak is and, more importantly, what it isn’t. Kodak is actually named the Eastman Kodak Company. It was incorporated in 1892 and did their thing until 2012 when it filed for bankruptcy. After that, it became two companies: Eastman Kodak and Kodak Alaris.For our purposes, Eastman Kodak manufactures the film and chemicals we use. Kodak Alaris markets and sells them to us (except for motion picture film, the sales of which Eastman continues to handle).If Eastman Kodak goes out of business, Kodak Alaris goes under too. Partially because it’s all kind of one company (sort of), but also because Alaris relies on Eastman for stock. Again, I’m narrowing everything to focus specifically on the film community. In reality, it’s a bit more complex than I’m making it. A private equity firm is now involved with Alaris, and that never ends well. So even if Eastman Kodak stays afloat, we’ll have that shitty s**t to deal with eventually.So, because of this weird arrangement of Peter constantly robbing Paul to pay nobody, if Eastman Kodak goes under and all of the film they make is no longer being made, that will affect a whole slew of companies directly.Your favorite photography stores, both local and online, will take a hit. Kodak film is a pretty big chunk of their business, but probably not enough to sink them. Especially the ones who have been smart enough to diversify a bit.Companies like Cinestill, Flic Film and every other company that re-rolls and repurposes Kodak motion picture film will close. Eastman Kodak isn’t the only manufacturer of motion picture film in the world, but they’re the only ones doing color. Also, if FujiFilm is selling any color film, that will go away, too. Kodak has been making film for them for a few years now.Other companies, like Lomography, will no longer have color film. All of Lomo’s regular color film is made by Kodak. There are other options and they have other emulsions as well as their broken cameras, so I doubt they’d fully go under, but it would be pretty rough.Ilford, on the other hand, suddenly becomes the largest film manufacturer in the world, so good for them!The Whole PointFilm photography sometimes seems more about buying stuff than actually creating art. So when Kodak’s latest flirtation with oblivion came to light, we had our own little meltdown during which we said things like “What will I do without Portra?” “How will I survive without Tri-X?” “I only use HC-110! I guess I’ll switch back to digital!”Now is a good time to remember that what we create has far more to do with us than it does with the material we use to create it. It’s easy to forget that when so much of film photography is collecting gear and stocking up the film fridge, but it’s true.Of course, most of what Kodak produces can be swapped out with something else. Do you like Tri-X? You’ll be fine with Ilford HP5. Do you develop with HC-110? There’s Legacy L-110. Adore the colors of Portra or Ektachrome? Well, okay, admittedly, we’ve got a problem there. But with Ilford dipping their toes into the color pool, and with them suddenly being the largest film manufacturer in the world, it’s likely they’d jump in to fill that gap.But even that isn’t the point. The point is that we will survive the loss of our go-to emulsions should Kodak go the way of the dinosaurs. My favorite emulsion is Vericolor III. It was discontinued by Kodak in 1994. I’m doing fine. We are artists and creators, our damn job is to overcome obstacles to realize our vision, our dreams. Film is a big part of what we do, but it’s not the reason we do it. Film is not why we are artists or even photographers.We Are SmallKodak has served photographers since before photography became a thing that everyone was doing. At its height (and for a couple of generations before), every household in America and Europe had at least one camera, and that camera needed film. The film community as we know it now didn’t really exist then – it didn’t need to.Once digital became a thing, we eventually figured out that we missed film. We missed the look, the process, the ritual. A bunch of us came back. That number, however, is an incredibly minuscule fraction of the number of film shooters in the 1980s, when film was at its apex. In comparison to that, we hardly exist. If you talk to any normal person on the street, even those folks old enough to remember buying film at the drug store, nine times out of ten, they will have no idea that people are still shooting film, that film is still being produced, or that labs still exist.We are living and creating in a bubble and need to realize that. Our community is smaller than many hobbies, and yet we still expect a huge company like Kodak to somehow survive on what we can collectively spend.It’s true that during its 2012 bankruptcy, Kodak could have downsized to a smaller company to better meet the needs of its film customers, but it didn’t. On one hand, it’s understandable, in 2012, the Holga explosion was happening, but that really seemed like a fad that would fizzle out in a year or so. On the other hand, instead of downsizing, Kodak expanded into several divisions, apparently to make shitty business decisions more efficiently across various sectors.What I’m trying to say is that we are small in number and tight in community. It makes no sense at all that a company the size of Kodak would be good at serving our needs.Kodak Doesn’t CareAnd what I’m really trying to say here is something that many of you might balk at: Kodak doesn’t really care much about us. Okay, sure, there’s Tim Ryugo, but he’s one guy and not the company. When it comes to film, their main customer is Hollywood.They know that people still shoot film, of course, that’s why they still make it. It is still profitable (or whatever) for them to do so. But they’re not really a part of the community in the way that Ilford is, or the way that your local camera store is.As a community, we can survive without Kodak because in many ways, we already are. Sure, sometimes they’ll sponsor a photowalk or two in the same way that Pepsi sponsors a drag race, but apart from supplying us with some of our film and chemica

If you look through my photos, you will see pictures of abandoned buildings, of houses left empty, of roads seldom driven, of paths sometimes walked only by me. You will see endless photos of old towns, empty cars, power lines, bridges, and railroads. But you'll almost never see a photo of a person, let alone a portrait.It took me years to realize that I shied away from this. And maybe that's what it is, maybe I am shy. Too shy to ask if I could take your picture. Too shy to learn just how to make it good. Too shy to extend myself to make that connection.But part of that realization was that while I don't take pictures of people, I do take pictures of humanity, though maybe that isn’t the right word (as you’ll see soon enough). Maybe I take photos of personality.PeopleWhen someone first pointed out that I didn't take pictures of people, I almost didn't believe them. I will roam from town to town, taking many photos, talking to many people, seeing them on the streets and in their cars and in their houses, and yet, rarely have they ever appeared in my photos.All of these subjects, all of these places that I photograph, were once peopled, were once inhabited. Some still are. Nearly every photo of mine has some record of human interaction with nature.I have fallen in love with this interaction, this relationship between humans and nature. I don’t even look for it anymore, I just see it. In every place I visit, every photo I take, there it is.I used to submit some of my photos to an online group that focused upon nature photography of Washington. Their only rule was that there was to be “no hand of man” – obvious evidence of human occupation or manipulation. But almost everywhere in Washington, almost everywhere in America, you can’t find what we think of as nature without the hand of man.The trails we walk, the hills we climb, the streams we swim were all affected by this mysterious “hand of man.” Perhaps it’s not so obvious as a paved highway through a forest, but the lasting ramifications of our relationship with nature are everywhere.Nature (Animals)Our usual definition of nature is anything outside of human interference. It’s tempting to suggest that our view of nature is faulty – that maybe humans should be counted as part of nature rather than separate. This makes sense in so many ways, especially because of how we now build our houses, our cities, exiling nature to the outskirts, and well-managed parks.But in another sense, maybe it's our perception of people that is faulty. Our idea of personhood and personality is very narrow. We see ourselves in it, of course, and sometimes we extend it to our pets, which is understandable. But almost never does it cross that line, almost never does it leave our house, our property, our bubble.And yet, it shouldn't be a stretch to see other animals as people. We give names to our pets. We see the personalities in our cats and dogs. And so it shouldn't be insurmountable for us to see the animals we come into contact with in the same light. Maybe we aren't as familiar with their ways, but we could be. There's very little stopping that from happening. Maybe it’s our shyness. Maybe all of us are as shy with the animals as I am with people.I don’t take too many photos of animals, if I’m being honest. I shared a couple of stories not too long ago about photographing some cows. I’ve also photographed a bird or two, when I got the opportunity. And, of course, there are the photos of Juniper on her deathbed. It was a devastating honor to take those photos.I do wish I could take more photos of animals, but it isn't shyness that's stopping me, it is skill and maybe patience. I don't have the patience to be a wildlife photographer. Also, most of my lenses are wide. In many photos, there must be hidden animals, unseen, staring at me, wondering what I am doing with a 90 mm lens. If only they could tell me.Nature: PlantsBut why not the plants? In some narrow ways, we are familiar with seeing plants as people. We raise and talk to, and even name, flowers and ferns. There was a prayer plant who lived in my house, and his name was Greg. I didn't name him, but he came to the house with that name, and it stuck.Many of us fawn over the flowers and vegetables growing in our gardens, and we form what logic tells us is a one-way relationship with them. But somewhere inside, we do understand that there is an exchange happening. Even materially, we water them, they grow, in return, they make us happy and fill our stomachs.So why not the plants in the wild? Why not the trees, the grasses, why not the wildflowers and sage? Even in the cities, plants are more plentiful than our human neighbors. And they're often much easier to deal with.Other PeopleI don't think I've always seen plants and animals in this way, but I'm having a hard time remembering when I didn't. It's something that I simply haven't given much thought to. But when I look through my photos, I can see it’s there. I am, in a way, taking photos of people. Maybe they aren't human people. And many of them aren't animal people.But I take portraits of trees. I focus in on flowers. They are not, as we often mistake, inanimate objects. They have life in them. They cycle through birth, disease, and death the same way we do. We have much more in common with them than we do a house, or a bridge, or a car.There is a world going on around us, under our feet, above our heads, and in some ways, we are connected to it. But in most ways, I think we've neglected it. Maybe we’ve forgotten. Maybe we've never had it.When we were babies, did we really see much of a difference between our older sibling and the dog? Didn't we have a favorite tree? Didn't we have that childhood urge to run to the forest?I was fortunate enough to grow up in a small town surrounded by farmers’ fields and woods. A large creek bordered one side of town, and I’d spend entire summer days running through the trees, scrambling up hills, building forts, and catching turtles and bugs.I learned quickly that if I sat silent and still, birds and squirrels would get used to me, ignore me, and go about their normal business. There were special moments when I’d see deer creep close for a drink, eyeing me all the while. And even when the deer and the squirrels weren’t around, I discovered that I could sit by a stream and just listen to its murmuring.Our Inanimate FriendsSo really, why stop at plants and animals? Couldn't the water also be a person? It can be calm and still one day, and full of anger and violence the next. We see that in ourselves. We see that in animals. And we can see that in the rivers and streams, the ocean, especially. None of these beings is inanimate.Even the rocks, though they are still and solid, are not inanimate. It may take millennia, but they can move. Even mountains can move. There is a mountain in Washington that many geologists are starting to figure out that moved from Baja California. In fact, much of Washington state is made up of tiny islands that were in the Pacific Ocean. They've all gathered together to make the home where I live now. And yet we think the land is inanimate because our lives are too short to see its motion.Nature Is MotionAs photographers, we can show the personality of animals and plants, of water, and even mountains. And I've always found it important to do so.Many photographers who photograph nature refuse to take their pictures when the wind is blowing. They want to take a beautiful photo, with a tight focus and a wide aperture. They want a tripod and the fastest shutter speed to negate any movement. I never understood this.All of nature is in motion. All of life is in motion. Even in death, we are still moving, the bugs wriggling around in our bodies, the worms in our guts. It's all motion. There's no way to escape it. As photographers, why are we trying to deny this?When I take a photo of, for example, an abandoned house, I try to show the uniformity it has with the nature around it. I try to show how it has changed and bent to the landscape. But I also try to show that everything around it is in motion by letting the shutter linger open for a second or more. I'll wait for a breeze if there is no wind, I will watch for the grasses swaying, and the tree limbs moving, and then I will open the shutter and wait, capturing more than just a quick sliver of light. I'm capturing a moment. I'm capturing a period of time, an era.Maybe all of my photos are motion pictures, in this way. But it's my way. I've only ever done it like this. I love seeing the movement. I love being reminded of how the stream is alive, the grasses are living, the leaves in the trees are waving. The blur that is present on film represents the opposite of what most nature photographers are trying to capture.Most nature photographers take after hunters, seeing something in the forest, a flash, and firing their gun to stop it. In fact, this is where the phrase snapshot was derived. Originally, it was a hunting term.But I long for the opposite of this. I go to nature to observe it, to live in it, and, as a photographer, to bring a little of it home with me. Not as a taxidermied trophy on film, but as my memory holds that moment. I want to capture how the moment felt just as much as how the moment looked. But still, nature photographers who freeze time with no movement at all fail to do this. They fail to move me.Home and HomesThis isn’t to claim that I never take photos of solid architecture, divorced from any nature around it. I do, and I enjoy that to some lesser degree. I take photos of signs, of cars, of human-built things, like any other photographer might. And yes, you can see the humanity in those things. But they are, without a doubt, things.More importantly, they are commodities. While there might be some artistry in there, they are, in the end, made to be sold. They are products in the grossest sense of the word. Even adding what little twist of artistry with t

This episode is a bit different. First, it is audio-only (and when you listen, you’ll understand why). Second, it is fully recorded in the field on a few hikes and an overnight camping trip that would usually be a photography trip. I suggest listening with headphones.Here, I take my first camera-less trip in well over 20 years. Did I survive? What is left of me? Along the way, I talk about why I wanted to try this, why I love this part of Washington state, the importance of photography, whether I regretted not bringing the camera, and so much more. There are, of course, no film photos to share with this one. I did take two or three cell phone pics, though. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit conspiracyofcartographers.substack.com

[Before we start, I want to let you know about my new zine, Cloudless. It’s now available, and you can pick it up here.]The narrow dirt road straddled the Idaho/Washington border with late spring wheat fields, their stalks nearly to my knees, growing on either side. I stopped the car on a hill and waited for the dust to settle so that I might see the scene behind me in my rearview mirror.I stepped onto the road, grabbing my camera and checking to see again what I had loaded. The road ran through a small cut into the hill, with steep enbankments rising above on either side. I scrambled to the top of one and saw the green wheat undulating like waves on a vast and uneven ocean.The hill I was on rolled its way to a small valley and other hills rising in the middle distance. An old barn stood in the valley, its wooden walls decaying and its tin roof patched, but intact. Light clouds dotted the sky.I raised the camera, took the photo, and slid back down to the road. This entire encounter took maybe thirty seconds. I stumbled into a lovely composition, and the photo nearly took itself. I was back in the car and driving to the next picture.Just how much thought I put into this photo, I couldn’t tell you. I know a good composition when I see one. I saw one and took the photo. It’s not that I didn’t think, it’s not that I just shot. I quickly scraped together whatever experience and foreknowledge I had, saw the photo before me, and took the picture.LomographyThere is a film company called Lomography that markets its rebranded films to photographers who want a certain lo-fi look. It plays well on nostalgia, and they’ve managed to turn the memories of grandma’s photo albums into a thriving business.On each roll of film they produce, they’ve printed their slogan: Don’t Think - Just Shoot! There is something mildly philosophical about this. I understand immediately what they want us to believe they’re saying. “Don’t overthink the photograph, go with your gut, shoot it!”Of course, what they’re actually saying is “buy more film.” After all, they are a company whose priority is the bottom line. The more film we shoot, the more film we buy. And the more film we shoot without thinking, the more film we blow through like a mid-80s wedding photographer.I can’t stress enough how bad this advice is. The advice is as bad as the faith of Lomography’s argument. It is only made worse by how obvious and brazen a cover it is.And still, on this trip, I brought along a film Lomography called Potsdam. Before the rebranding, the film was made by German motion picture film manufacturer ORWO, which called it UN54. I used to buy it in bulk back in my 35mm days. The only way to acquire it now in medium format is to buy it as Potsdam from Lomography.I love how this emulsion handles shadows, how inky dark it can be. There is a contrast to this film that you can ply with a yellow filter, or even red. I would shoot this film more, and might even use it regularly if not for Lomography’s lack of quality control. But more on that later.CowsI often find myself driving through range land, where cows and sometimes sheep roam free. An awareness of this is necessary when I’m driving, and caution is always in order. A few years back, while driving near the Missouri River in Montana, I was surrounded by cows with their young bulls. One of the bulls spooked and, rather than running away from my car, ran into the front quarter panel, putting a huge dent in it.I stopped to see if he was okay - he was. And then I called my insurance company to explain that a cow had hit my car. “You hit a cow?” she asked. “No,” I replied, “other way around.”Cows are usually skittish and fearful of us. It’s no wonder the hell we put them through. Taking their photo is something that almost never happens for me. The car already frightens them, and then when a human emerges from this metal cage, it’s basically the end times.But along a Summer Road I’ve photographed before, I came across cows and heifers on both sides of the road. They were behind fences, and there were no young and frightened bulls to be seen.The older cows were immediately uneasy, but the heifers, maybe a year old, were curious. Their eyes met mine, and they stood watching me. Another walked closer to get a better look.I slowly went for my camera and began talking to them in a soft voice. I have no idea if this mattered, but it put me at ease. I walked from the road, over a small ditch, and into the grass where the barbed wire fence was strung, separating the cows from the road.They stood, just looking, though I could see the clouds of hesitation and anxiety building behind their eyes. I lifted the camera and focused. This is usually as far as I’ll get with cows. At this point, they’re taking no chances and running away, often creating a mini-stampede.This time, however, they just watched. They looked into the camera. There were three of them - two younger, one older. I was afraid that the loud click of the shutter and mirror slap of the Mamiya RB67 might scare them away, but even that hardly registered.I took several photos of the trio and another of a mother and calf, who also cooperated, though with much more apprehension.I had to work quickly. I had no idea how long my luck would hold, how long the cows would tolerate this strange event happening before them. I had to “just shoot,” worried that I might miss the opportunity. But I never stopped thinking, I never ceased calculating the odds of getting just one more photo.In the end, that wouldn’t have mattered to Lomography (whose film, Potsdam, I was shooting). I quickly finished the roll and loaded another. They don’t really care if you think or not, they just want you to shoot more. And I did. Then, with the next roll of Potsdam ready to go, I returned to the car, grateful that the cows were brave girls. The boys could certainly learn some lessons.The Worst Question EverBack in the days of the previous podcast, I interviewed dozens of photographers. Through all of that, there was one question I never asked, one question that nearly every other film photography podcast asked first: “Why do you choose to shoot film?”It’s not that it’s necessarily a bad question. It’s just that nearly every film photographer answers it the same way - some variation of: “I shoot film because it makes me slow down.”This answer, like the photographers answering, comes at the question from the aspect of a former digital photographer who thoughtlessly shot everything as quickly as they could.It’s understandable; that’s how digital photography was marketed. With film, you had 36 exposures at most before you had to change rolls. With digital, you’ve got hundreds.However, these are two different issues: one of speed and one of capacity. They’re not actually related at all.The push for faster photo-taking wasn’t invented with digital cameras. All through the 70s and 80s, film camera manufacturers pushed how quick and easy their new cameras were. From the motorized backs for medium format to the point & shoot 35mms, how quickly we could blow through frames was a huge selling point.WheatThere are small dirt roads that are rarely driven by anyone but farmers to and from their tractors parked on the edge of their fields. But I drive them. There are seldom homes along them, no businesses, rarely even barns. But here, the roads rise and fall with the land. Only slightly graded (maybe once in the springtime), these Summer Roads offer us the closest feel we’ve got to the roads of the territorial days, the days before the car.As I bounced along one, driving west with the morning sun at my back, I was again between wheat fields. The road was straight and level, though a small ridge rose beyond. In the middle of the road, as if planted on purpose, grew a small and struggling stalk of wheat. Its leaves wrinkled unshaded under the sun, yet still several spikes of grains grew in seeming defiance.It was not purposely planted here. It likely fell accidentally from a seeder and somehow managed to take root. Standing alone in the center of the road, the stalk of the plant was missed by the tires of tractors and trucks over the months it had been growing. I could have driven over it, not harming it in the slightest.Instead, I stopped. I sat there looking at the stalk, wondering how I could photograph it. I don’t know how long I considered the scene. Was it even worth it? Before very long, I grabbed my camera from the back seat and walked up to the plant. I’d probably be the only car on this road all day. I had time.Looking over this stunted stalk of wheat, I consciously mulled the decisions between color and black & white, between a wide aperture and narrow. Did I feel it should be horizontal or vertical? I know I wished for a lens wider than the 90mm. It wouldn’t be the first nor last time that thought crossed my mind.The light was perfect. The sun was high enough so that I might not cast a shadow onto the plant, but low enough to bring definition and texture to the leaves and seeds. I knew I had time, so I took it.Crouching, knees now in the dirt of the road, I took my first shot - a simple black & white picture with the wheat in focus. I decided to open the aperture and held myself steady to not miss focus. I knew the fields on either side of the road would fall to a mostly ill-defined blur, but the road and the tread from the trucks driving through before me would show. The story of just how this little plant was surviving would be told.Following the shot, I returned to the car for the color film loaded into a different holder.I walked back to my previous spot, framing it over again, but closing the aperture slightly to allow the wheat fields to come into their own. I wanted them to echo this little plant. I tried another from the same position, this time focusing at infinity. This was pointless, and I think I knew it at the time. The small stalk of wheat blurs and blends into the smeared foreground as

Did you ever have someone get really intense with you over something you said? They were insistent, and even their arguments seemed a bit more involved than just boring semantics. Maybe they were even angry. And it’s someone whose opinion you valued, so immediately, you took a step back and gave a long think to whatever you said and how you said it. Then, after quite a bit of soul-searching introspection, you concluded that you were still right and what the hell was that all about?One time I was casually talking to a fellow film photographer about how much time we all spend on film photography - “it’s our hobby,” I said, “it’s what we do.” They were really unimpressed with this. I wasn’t trying to be deep or even thought-out, but they took offense.“Photography is NOT just a hobby,” they said, using the word “just” to fully and completely separate what they did for fun from what other people do for fun. “Photography is everything! It’s our artistic outlet, our means of communicating our emotions, it’s how we see the entire world!”And that’s all true. But this photographer, like me, was not a professional. They spent far more money on photography than they saw in any returns from print sales, etc. We were pretty much on the same level of photographic intensity. It was indeed our lives, it’s what we thought of when we woke up and what we dreamed about when asleep. Every second of our day was consumed by photography.At that point, I was more than happy with thinking of photography as my hobby, and myself as an amateur photographer. It’s a thing I did in my free time, and I didn’t get paid (in the sense that if this were a business, I’d have been bankrupt years ago). And this argumentative photographer was there too.This conversation took me aback. Did I misunderstand what a hobby was? Was I not arting well enough? Was my photography lacking or inferior because I was fine with it being a hobby?What is a Hobby?At first, my suspicion was that maybe we were using two drastically different definitions of “hobby.” Wasn’t a hobby just a fun thing you did in your free time because you enjoyed it?After collecting a few opinions on the matter, I hit the dictionaries and discovered, yes, that’s basically the definition we’ve all agreed upon in the English speaking world.The entire idea of having a hobby is something that didn’t come about until fairly recently in Western history. It seems that the concept didn’t even invent itself until the 1500s when some wealthy people suddenly found themselves with nothing to do and they filled this free time with stuff that seemed like work (and actually was work to poorer people – like woodworking, needlepoint, and baking), but was actually something they did for pleasure.The word hobby comes from the “hobby horse,” – a stick with a fake horse head on it. For some reason, possibly involving Tristam Shandy, that phrase was expanded to mean leisurely pastime. Eventually, the “horse” was dropped and “hobby” remained.At first it was seen as a privilege to have a hobby. But by the 1600s, “hobby” had taken on a negative connotation. Maybe this was when the phrase muttered by every shitty boss everywhere came into being: “if you can lean, you can clean.” It is almost certainly tied to the Protestant work ethic. Hobbies were seen as play, and play was something for children. Western Civilization has been in decline since then. (I’m joking, of course, it was already well on its way.)We have much more free time today than we did in the 1600s. However, we are also living through a period where free time is valued less and less, especially in the United States.For me, photography is a hobby. It’s probably a hobby for you too, and that’s okay. I also have other hobbies. Obviously, etymology is one of them. So are music and movies. I recently got a fountain pen and I suppose I could make that a hobby if I wanted to (I probably don’t, and that’s okay too). Writing is probably second to photography and scratches many of the same itches.Is Collecting Cameras a Hobby? Is it Photography?Caught up in all of this is the strange fact that film photography actually encompasses two completely different hobbies. We have photographers and camera collectors. This is muddied even farther since the Venn diagram depicting the crossover is nearly a circle. Most film photographers have a collection of cameras, and most camera collectors are also photographers.Some of the desire to draw a line between photography and hobbies comes from this. In some ways, I get it. I really hate gear talk. When photographers start talking lenses, I basically die inside. I just can’t do it. I just don’t care.It’s not that I think it’s beneath me or not artistic enough, it just doesn’t interest me in the same way that knitters talking about different gauges of needles doesn’t interest me. That’s not my hobby.I mean, I have a bunch of cameras like most other film photographers these days, but I don’t care much about them (and yes, this is a whole other thing I need to talk about someday). They’re fun to look at, and I’m basically fine with them being there, but I’m not a gear person. When someone asks me which lens I’m using, I have to look it up. I just don’t care enough to remember.But I guess you could still call me a camera collector, or at least, a guy with a camera collection.I’m the perfect candidate to look down on those photographers whose focus is gear rather than art. And I admit, it’s really ingrained in us to feel this way. It’s difficult not to. But it’s also shitty, and it’s important that we get over ourselves. Let people find their joy just as they let us find ours. And who’s to say our joy is more joyful, more pure?Photography isn’t JUST a Hobby!When someone says “photography isn’t just a hobby,” they’re actually admitting the 17th century Protestant work ethic idea that hobbies are childish, that hobbies aren’t important is true. They’re implying what they’re doing is art and is endlessly more important.Calling your artistic pursuit a hobby doesn’t diminish what you love; instead, it recognizes that the love other people have for their pursuits is just as worthy and wonderful as yours. Calling it a hobby doesn’t lessen your skills and expertise. It doesn’t make you less of an artist. It’s just a good way to remind yourself that you’re doing this for the joy of it.The problem with saying “photography is just a hobby” is that we’re also conceding that it is a hobby, but it’s also much more. And it is! Two things can be true! Most hobbies are more than just one thing. Most hobbies involve something that sets them apart from other hobbies. There’s a lot in photography that is unique to photography, but it’s not more unique than the specifics of literally any other hobby.For me, the go-to example of a hobby is model railroading. It’s nice, pretty much everyone agrees that it’s a hobby, even model railroaders (is this because they’re not pretentious?). Model railroading involves a crazy amount of artistry, physics, research, skill, and free time. There are people even more into model railroading than we are into photography, I promise you. Pretty well anyone would agree that a good model railroad layout is a work of art, and yet they’re never counted amongst other artists. They sculpt, yet aren’t seen as sculptors. They paint, yet nobody calls them painters. They’re often pretty good photographers, too. But that’s not what they lead with. They are hobbyists and seem to understand the actual value of that word.Meanwhile, we’re over here insisting that “photography isn’t just a hobby” because we can frame a picture and push a button. Maybe we need to recalibrate our enthusiasm.The Way Out of Hobbies is DumbFilm photography came back into prominence during a strange intersection of nostalgia and recession. It came about when vinyl records started making a comeback (for some, anyway – I never stopped). Things were turning very digital very quickly, and we longed for the analog.Digital photography had completely usurped film photography, and nobody but the extreme purists and hobbyists continued to use film. Camera companies had stopped making new cameras, most emulsions were discontinued, Ebay and garage sales were stocked high with grandpa’s old gear.This allowed for a very low threshold of entry for new and returning photographers. In many ways, this was equalizing. Suddenly, you didn’t have to be a professional wedding photographer to afford a Mamiya RB67 (the greatest medium format camera ever made) and a few rolls of (likely expired) slide film.Soon, an entirely new community grew from where there was none. The old gatekeepers in their photography clubs were either ignored or ousted, as thousands of new photographers entered the hobby.Unfortunately, this happened during the rise of hustle culture, a form of workaholism where pretty much every waking minute is somehow commodified. Often, it was done out of necessity, but like with anything, most people took it too far.When it came to photography, selling prints, zines, and books had always been a thing. With the introduction of hustle culture, all of those were amped up, and things like seminars, tutorials, and even collaborations ended up seeming more scammy than useful.This led to a very straight and dark line between consumers and producers, separating film photographers from those who do it as a hobby and those who were serious enough to charge money for doing it as a hobby.We like to say that this kind of thing democratizes art. We like to think that since we don’t have to rely upon publishers and galleries like photographers used to, there are no longer gates to gatekeep.This is a fairly dumb dividing line, though. What often keeps someone from making zines or prints is simply the upfront costs or the know-how, or even the desire to do one. It’s really no great achievement to select 30 or 40 photos, put them in order, and send it off to a print shop so they can make so

“You don’t take a photograph,” a young Ansel Adams might have said, “you make it.”This is probably Adams’s most famous quote. And, it’s usually just something rattled off by your photography professor because it sounds deep and you gave them a bunch of money, and they have to say something at least a little profound-ish. And you were young and impressionable. You’d buy anything.It’s used by a thousand semi-professional photographers trying to convince their potential clients that they’re doing something different, something more thoughtful.But was Adams really trying to be profound or obtusely philosophical? Was his meaning truly the chasm of profundity we seem to believe it was? Or is this quote just photography’s “Not all who wander are lost”?Ansel Adams thought that the act of photographing something should be a process, something well-considered, crafted. And it’s hard to disagree with that.And yet, it always seems a bit cringe when I hear “You don’t take a photograph, you make it.” This could be my own hang-up, assuming that the person saying or writing it was being precious and pious. It sounds pompous and inflated with self-importance. This is because it often is.Let me get this out of the way right up front. This is a pet peeve of mine. And since it’s a pet peeve, it means that I don’t have to care about your rational opinion of this because I fully understand that my opinion may not be rational. More importantly, I’d rather scan the curliest 35mm negatives than argue with someone about this. And no, you don’t have to listen to me and my dumb opinion, but here you are.Etymology for Fun and Profit!When we say “I am making a picture,” what we’re really attempting to say is that we have given this subject, this scene, or whatever we’re photographing some thought. We’re not just taking a throw-away snapshot. I don’t think that’s how Adams meant it, but we’ll get to that soon enough.First, I want to dig into the words “take” and “make.” They rhyme, and that’s a big clue to solving this mystery of why some of us say that we “make” a photograph. And we’ll get to that later too.One of my other pet peeves is writers who begin an essay, “the dictionary defines” whatever they’re talking about. It’s lazy, it’s poor form, and I know attacking it is an easy target, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be a target.This, however, is different. We’re talking about two words that are, in the case of photography, almost interchangeable. Regardless of which one we use, we are exposing some chunk of photosensitive material to light. Both words describe the same action.Both words, however, are very different, with wildly contrasting connotations. When we “take a picture,” it’s quick and thoughtless, but when we “make a picture,” it’s full of intention and purpose.Historically, the words “take” and “make” are roughly the same age. “Take” comes from early Scandinavian, and we got “make” from one of the old Germanic languages. Both were welcomed into Old English a long time ago.The definition of “take” is pretty straightforward. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, “take” means “To seize, grasp, or capture something.” The original definition generally refers to capturing a town or vessel during wartime. But all of our basic definitions for “take” are drawn from this idea.The definition for “make” is “to bring into existence by construction or elaboration.” It goes on: “To produce (a material thing) by combination of parts […] to construct, assemble, frame, fashion.” “Make” is about production, about the material produced. It’s the end result of whatever we’re doing.Even now, we can see how “take” and “make” both have their parts in what we do. We “take” or capture a picture. We “make” or produce a material print.Taketh a LikenessBut let’s go a little farther. Why did we ever say “take a picture”?While it’s impossible to know who coined the term, it was first used in relation to imagery in the early 1500s. This was 300 years before the invention of photography. In the letters of Sir Thomas Cromwell, he mentions that someone would visit and “see his daughter and also take her picture.”In this case, “take” meant “to paint” a portrait. Throughout the following centuries, we see this usage again and again.Francis Meres complained in 1597 about someone “With such trimming and setting, and smoothing and correcting, as if ye meant immediately to have your pictures taken.”Oliver Goldsmith wrote of a “limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a head” in 1767. [Side note: the word “likeness” meaning an image or painting, dates back to well over 1000 years.] [Also, a limner was someone who illustrated a manuscript.]When photography came around, they just continued using the same word: take.In an 1839 article about Louis Daguerre (one of the inventors of photography), an author wrote about his daguerriotypes, “Some of his last works have the force of Rembrandt's etchings. He has taken them in all weathers—I may say at all hours.”The same word, “take,” was also used in early cinematography. “The biograph people came down from New York and took moving pictures of the ten-seater [bicycle],” wrote the Denver Evening Post in 1897.To be fair, “make” did show up from time to time when talking about paintings, but it does seem to have been pretty rare, and always in the past tense, often in the distant or ancient past.What we don’t see, however, is any reference to “making a photograph” prior to Ansel Adams in 1935. This is because, I believe, it was Ansel Adams who started this in his 1935 book Making a Photograph. It was Adams who redefined the word “make,” and all joking aside, that’s commendable.But I don’t think he was using the word as we use it today, I think we’ve redefined it even further, twisting it and his quote to suit our own ideas.Language is constantly changing. When I was growing up, “out of pocket” meant hat you had to pay a bunch of money because your shitty insurance wouldn’t cover something they said they would. Now it means ridiculous or crazy, though in retrospect, I see the connection.There are two types of people when it comes to definitions and word usage: prescriptivists and descriptivists. Prescriptivists want words and meanings to remain as unchanged as possible. They want unchanging grammar, standardized usage, and regular spelling. Descriptivists look at how language is actually used rather than how it’s “supposed” to be used.Normally, I am more of a descriptivist. I understand the need for standarization when it comes to writing, but languages are fluid and constantly changing. I love looking back through etymologies and seeing how usage and definitions have changed over the years and centuries.But not here. Again, this is a pet peeve. I won’t be budging. With the take vs. make argument, I’m a prescriptivist. It’s take. Always has been.However, the descriptivist part of me finds it a little interesting to see how the usage of “make a photograph” has slipped since Adams said it in 1935.The Original QuoteBut there’s something more to this. We’ve taken a look at the quote (“You don’t take a photograph, you make one”), but I haven’t told you the whole quote, the full context.Are you ready? Because I don’t think you are.“The unique quality in photography is a combination of rigidity, based on the pure physical, scientific facts of life, and the possibility of controlling that rigidity. You don't take a photograph, you make it. Expression is the strongest way of seeing.”This appeared in a 1979 issue of Time Magazine. The quote is not sourced, but I believe it comes from his 1935 book, Making a Photograph. Ansel Adams was a wonderful photographer, but his writing leaves much to be desired.I spent hours upon hours trying to source this quote to no avail. What I also found is that the quote we know, the “You don’t take a photograph, you make it,” doesn’t show up on its own until after his death.For how often it’s quoted, and for how much it’s associated with Ansel Adams, you'd think that this was some motto he repeated constantly. That his friends would all roll their eyes and leave the room, "oh god, Ansel’s going on about making a photograph again!”. You’d think he had it tattooed on his chest. With a few buttons missing, just across his bulging pecks you could read “you don't take a photograph, you make it."This was something he said of course, it was something he believed, I guess, but it wasn't central to anything he did.The more I consider it, the more I think that while Ansel Adams said those words, he had no idea how far-reaching an impact they would have. It was just a clunky sentence lost among other clunky sentences.The photography community seems to have co-opted his words and memories, making the quote what it is today. We gave it a different meaning. We completely changed the intent. Ansel Adams had very little to do with what is his most famous quote.A Bit About Adams & PictoralismWhen Adams started taking photography seriously in the early 1920s, he had just missed the war going on in the art world. In the early days, photography was largely used to document things and for portraiture. It was not seen as an art, especially not on the level of painting.Photography was a science. You needed certain chemicals in specific amounts, there were beakers and bubbling sounds, every darkroom was a laboratory. Most painters saw photography as a rigid science, not as an art. Hell, most photographers agreed.But around 1880 that started to change. Some photographers like Gertrude Kasebier, Alfred Stieglitz, and Edward Steichen insisted that photography was art, actually, and their style often pulled inspiration from impressionistic painters. This resulted in the Pictoralist movement, with photographs in soft focus and dream-like. Adams caught the tail end of this movement, and his early work is in that style.While he missed the war between art and science, he was starting to wage one

Last week I told you a story, I told you about my first hike of the season, I told you about solitude and how important a role it plays in where I travel, where I photograph. Last week I told you all about it, I told you almost everything. It was, however, a lie of omission.“I scrambled up some natural steps,” I told you, “between sagebrush and giant boulders left stranded.” Before taking in the Columbia River still hundreds of feet below, I took out my phone, recorded a video, and posted it to Instagram.I told you about walking the ranch road, which “made for a feeling like I was walking in history” without telling you that I took out my phone and recorded another video, posting it again to Instagram.The same was true for the balsamroot flowers, as it was true for the walkway on the basalt cliff. The same was true for the bus, except I took two videos.The ravens, however, I kept for myself. They were my solitude amongst the imagined solitude and a miraculous 5G connection.I made some glancing reference to all of this. “All along the hike,” I confessed, “I had been taking quick videos with my phone and posting them as stories on Instagram. I thought that I wasn’t going to do this,” I told you, “and was a little unhappy with myself after the first few, finally giving in and sharing the whole day.”This is maybe the only fully true thing I wrote. But even this is understated. Even this seems like some throwaway line, lip service paid to some vague concept of the rugged outdoors I claim to seek. Solitude doesn’t work like that. Solitude isn’t just isolation. Solitude isn’t a place. It’s not where you go to get away from it all. Solitude is expansive and expanding, it is terrifying and fleeting. Solitude is a life. It’s thousands of days, hundreds of years, centuries all wrapped up in that moment you realize you are alone, that there is nothing that will touch you.It is not the canyons, the desert, the solo camping trips. It’s not the hours or road miles before you, after you. It’s not even being alone, it’s not even lonesomeness. It is something you carry inside of you. Something concealed, something necessarily and only yours. Solitude is you. It is the very essence of who we are. It is not family or friends or community, but our solitude affects all of those. When we ignore it or get lost within it, our solitude affects those we love. When we embrace it, love it, trust in it, trust in ourselves, then we can offer our true selves to our loved ones.The walk I took last week was not solitude, and not just because I had a data connection or because I talked to a few people. It was not solitude because every chance I had at solitude was cast aside by an Instagram video. I wanted solitude, but more than that, I wanted to reach out, to tell my friends and the people of my community, “hey, look at what I’m doing right now!”I wasn’t content to spend time with myself, to get to know who I was that day. That connection I sought is a connection I have almost constantly. I didn’t really want to share my day as much as I wanted to ignore myself. And while connection and community are essential to life, so is solitude, so is connecting and communing with yourself.In that way, the time away was a failure. And I needed some redemption, I craved that isolation, that chance for solitude.An ExplanationAnd so, this past weekend, I tried again. It wouldn’t be a hike this time, I’m still not sure I’m up for that. It would be a drive. But I think I owe you an explanation as to what that means.My drives are well-planned. I select lonesome dirt roads leading from stop to stop, photographing anything that catches my eye. I visit small towns, but even then, I keep to the side streets, the alleys, and secondary roads leading in and out. I’m not quite slinking or skulking, but I avoid the highways and asphalt as much as I can.When I stop to photograph along the way, I take my time. In a way, it’s a meditation, a relationship is built or continued, as was the case last weekend.I have driven almost every public road in Douglas County, Washington, from the highways to jeep roads that faintly trace their way across the sage and hills. This trip was a return, a rekindling. The locations I selected were mostly from memory, and I tried to approach them in new ways, both physically and mentally.The landscape changes slowly out there, but it does change, and with photography, we have a record of that change. Our photography is the thought and the words of that conversation.CloudlessI was packed – two cameras, a few lenses, over a dozen rolls of film, and far more sheets than I would use. I had my tent, my sleeping bag, food, and a feeling that my solitude could come into play at least to some degree.There was one large caveat, however. The skies would be cloudless. Normally, this would be enough for me to postpone a trip. Clouds are often essential to what I shoot. They frame my subjects, they are dark halos over once-loved homes, they are the heavens rendered reachable, touchable. Without clouds, there is nothing above. There is void. But there might also be solitude. And it was at this I decided to make the trip anyway.I took my phone, of course. My offline maps were loaded on it, and it’s an essential tool for what I do. But I was going dark, not quite off-grid – I could still be reached (and reach out) if necessary.My photography wanderings are quite an undertaking, with multiple trips from the house to the car, loading it with camera gear and packs. As I was lugging my 4x5 kit down the stairs to the car, I realized this. So much prep and effort are packed into a three day, two night excursion. It’s understandable why it’s so rare. But I don’t understand why I hardly leave the house otherwise.HomeApart from work, I am homebound. It used to be different. I used to go to the movies a few times a week. I used to photograph Seattle, taking on huge photography projects, which led me to explore the less-traveled parts of town. I once walked over five miles a day just wandering down various streets and paths through the city. But now, even with the beautiful spring, here I am inside.To add to this, I used to publish a zine every month or so. I used to have a podcast with a world built around a growing community. I’d receive dozens of messages each day from listeners, friends, people asking questions, and others answering mine. I was online and connected about as much as I am now, but that connection seems lost or that it’s moved along.I feel like I’ve been infected with a short attention span. Where once I was able to watch movies, even at home, with little care about what’s happening on my phone, I find myself wandering through uncountable YouTube videos and for no good reason.Even on May the 4th, Star Wars Day. I wanted to watch something adjacent and picked Akira Kurosawa’s Hidden Fortress and The Bogart & Bacall film The Big Sleep as interesting takes on A New Hope and Empire Strikes Back. But I didn’t. Instead, I just flipped through YouTube like I flipped through channels as a bored kid.The movies and local photowalks take almost no planning or commitment at all, while my days-long trips take foresight and a level of preparedness that would keep most people from doing them. I don’t understand why I can hardly leave the house or focus unless it’s some big production. I don’t have answers here. It’s not that sort of thing.Letters and NumbersMost of the roads through Douglas County are laid out in a grid, each road exactly a mile away from the next, each road numbered or lettered accordingly. When I plan, I look for roads that break that pattern. They are placed where the land would not relent to an unnatural straight line. This was not even a compromise, we stood no chance, we gave in to the contours of the land.There is a road which peels itself off from Road E Northwest called Road 13 Northwest. Because of the land, this road is mostly diagonal, curving along a sagebrush-covered ridge. Here, it is hardly more than a two-track.In the spring, wildflowers grow in abundance along this road. Mostly it’s the balsamroot flowers, but also rock buckwheat, phlox, and buttercup. There are yellows and purples and whites mixed amongst the brown grasses and light sage.In one particular spot, a large basalt boulder was planted, and with the cloudless blue skies and colorful ground, I stopped and spent an hour. Not a single car or truck passed by. It was me and my 4x5. I used strange and expired color film. This is duplication film, never meant to be exposed inside a camera. I knew it would draw out the colors, saturate the scene, bring every color to its most intense. It would look the way it felt.As I walked the small prairie, placing my tripod among the flowers, I missed the clouds. I knew I would. The clouds add a dynamic to our static scenes in the same way wind might. I love to force long exposures, capturing the wind on my photos – the flowers swaying, the leaves a blur, the clouds smeared across the sky. And here there was nothing. Not a cloud above from one wide horizon to the other.I missed them, but was resigned. It was what it was, and there was little I could do but capture this cloudless day.BotherationBut to what end? It’s not that I suffer from impostor syndrome – the idea that someone will finally catch on to the truth that you have no idea what you’re doing and hold no qualifications at all to do it. I know where I stand as a photographer and am fine with whatever my abilities are.My issue is that I can’t convince myself that anyone cares, and also, why should they? It’s not that I don’t want them to care, but I also understand why they don’t. “What I do isn’t for everybody,” I tell myself, which is really another way of saying that what I do doesn’t matter.The evidence for this floated thoughtlessly through the air around me. The reason my books don’t sell like they used to, I’ve convinced myself, is because nobody cares enough to buy them. It

I had packed the night before - camera, film, water, food. I had checked maps, selected my trails, and committed them to memory. This would be an easy hike, I thought, but then recalibrated. I am out of shape, this is the first hike of the year (first hike in a year), and I haven’t felt great in months. This will be what it is.It’s not that I didn’t care, but I had to get out. The winter and early spring of Seattle was suffocating me. The constant noise of cars, the echo of far too many voices, the monotony of concrete and asphalt and concrete was walling me off, brick by brick.There’s a balance we try to strike as photographers between living in the moment and photographing that moment. It’s impossible to do both, though we often tell ourselves otherwise.We lie to ourselves, saying that while we are experiencing the through the lens, it’s still happening and we are still fully present. We want so badly for this to be true, even when we’re not hiding behind the camera. Experiencing the moment without the filter of a lens grows terrifying the more time we spend behind it.It was tempting to leave the camera at home, but of course I didn’t.What I did was a compromise I made with myself years ago. Each hike, I make some vague attempt to carry my camera inside my pack. Of course, this runs antithetical to the photographer’s philosophy/film manufacturer’s marketing slogan of always having a camera at the ready.This, I’ve found, allows me to experience the moment first, and then hide behind my camera. This also means not capturing some of the moments. But then, this is also a rule I end up breaking to no real advantage by the end of the hike.With large format a pack is necessary. There’s really no other way to carry a tripod and camera that needs a tripod (as well as film holders) into the field. But I’ve also started doing it with medium format, lugging the boat anchor known as the Mamiya RB67 on my back.When I see something worth a photograph, I sling off the pack, unroll the top, take out the camera bag, take out the camera, and shoot. This entire operation requires only thirty seconds or so. The lens is already on the camera, the film is already loaded. All I need to do is check the light.The sun rose softly behind thick morning clouds as I crossed the Columbia River on Interstate 90. I had left Seattle hours before dawn and regretted not camping the cold night before. The light was dim and gray, and though I was there to photograph the spring wildflowers, I had brought enough black & white film to last the entire hike should the clouds fail to disperse.Washington is known for its lush forests of firs and moss, its tall granite peaks, and glacial lakes. But that is almost never my destination. East of all that, on the other side of the Cascade Mountain Range, lies an almost prairie landscape full of sage and grasses intercut with seemingly inexplicable dry box canyons. It’s called the Scablands, and that’s an awful name for one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. This is the shrub-steppe, a (nearly) desert grassland that covers nearly one-third of the state.While a few trees dot the landscape – mostly the invasive Russian olive tree – the rolling hills are covered with sagebrush, a slow-growing shrub whose leaves smell of camphor and mint. When it rains, the air fills with this scent and everything in the world seems perfect, even though it really, really isn’t.When I arrived at the trailhead, there were more cars than I had ever seen there before: fifteen. Maybe sixteen. Had my spot been blown up? I wondered, reminding myself that this wasn’t my spot, that I’m only here a few times a year. This is public land, and it’s ours. But still, that’s a lot of cars for a place three hours from Seattle. I parked, double-checked my gear, took a long drink of water, and started down the trail.The hike was at a place known by a few different names. Most commonly, it’s called Ancient Lakes – a misnomer we’ll come back to. But it’s also called Potholes Coulee, and has been for nearly a century. This is a state wildlife area known as the Quincy Lakes Unit, part of the Columbia Basin Wildlife Area.The main features, apart from the lakes, are two half-mile wide canyons running parallel, east and west into the Columbia River, for two miles with a thin spine separating them. From space, they look like a giant had pressed two fingers into the mud. The north canyon, Ancient Lakes Coulee, is the most traveled and visited. It’s the easiest to get to and has several small lakes inside it. The south canyon is Dusty Lake Coulee. They are not mirrors of each other, but hikers rarely do both.But I would do neither this time. Over the years, I have explored and camped in both. I have walked in from the same trailhead, level with the floor of the coulees. And I have also scrambled the 250 feet down the side of the coulees from the top. I have hiked and photographed the overlooks, side canyons, wetlands, and oddities of this place for the last fifteen years.Though the coulees themselves weren’t where the trail was taking me today, my first stop was a photo I have wanted to retake for years. Nothing was wrong with the original one. Or the one I took after that. But I wanted to see what I could do with it again.A main trail – actually an old ranch road – leads you across the wide mouths of both coulees, here nearly a mile in width. Along the way, several trails lead you inside the coulees, with various branches splitting off here and there.I tramped past the first main trail off, and then the second, cresting over the crumbled remains that divided Ancient Lake Coulee from Dusty Lake Coulee. From here, I looked east along the tall spine left standing. These were sheer basalt cliffs with columns like the Devil’s Fence Post or Giant’s Causeway. But they were here, unheralded and unnamed, tucked into the cliffside with some small sunlight piercing the clouds and showing their tall shadows. Looking a mile across to the other side, a small waterfall was lit up white by the sun, and it twinkled and shone. If I had time, I said, I’d visit it on the way out.I backtracked some, returning to the trail into the coulee. My footprints were the only ones on it that morning, and I tracked over only the faintest of prints left in the mud some weeks before. This was the first warm weekend, more would be coming. But for now, it was just me.What I was seeking was off-trail a bit, and I began angling away from the trail, moving through grasses, sage, and nearly-opened rock buckwheat flowers, stepping over tumbleweeds of invasive Russian thistle, until I found a century-old iron wheel stuck into the ground. What was left of its spokes was cut so the axle could be freed.I don’t know what this wheel was attached to or why the wheel was left. I know nothing of it at all, finding it by accident as I roamed around a decade ago.I slipped off my pack and removed the camera. I circled the scene a few times, deciding how to shoot it this time, forgetting how I shot it last, though maybe that’s for the best. When I reshoot a location, I try my best to forget how I shot it before. But I also want to photograph it differently, and so I try to feel my way into something new. Sometimes it even works.The light was still dim, and I used 400 speed Ilford HP5 with a yellow filter to bring some small handful of contrast to the scene. Still circling the wheel, I shot several frames, including a close-up of a thistle branch. The sun cooperated by staying hidden, and I continued on, looking for the trail that would lead me lower.If the coulees had flowing water, it would empty into the Columbia River, running perpendicular just a mile west of the trailhead. The land between the coulees and the river, 500 feet below, is a maze of tall, sharp outcroppings and dead-end narrow basins. Few trails lead down the various precipices, but I had found one that did.The trail here was a well-cut walkway clinging to the side of a basalt cliff. Over the millennia, the cliff had shed, littering and piling thin rocks along its walls. Eventually, I thought, the cliffs will shed so much they will no longer be cliffs, but hills, steep and rolling. For now, though, walking over this uneven and precarious talus path, the view winding down to the river, still hidden in a canyon of its own, stopped me.With the sun, still low and again behind clouds, the gray valley unfolded itself. The rocky path I was on descended to a landing lush with grasses and sage. As the cliff I was walking along faded away, another, opposite me, extended with various levels and shelves, themselves covered in grasses, leading to basalt walls and columns hundreds of feet high. Trails branched and combined within this small space.Above me cried two ravens, flying side-by-side in the cool air. As they floated down into this little valley, towards the Columbia, one of the ravens turned upside down, tucked in their wings, and gave a quick and joyful “caw caw!” before flipping back and gliding with their friend. A moment later, the raven again flipped over, repeating the same call, and then back right. They did this several more times before flying back up the canyon, circling, and gliding back down again. As they escaped my view, I could still hear the upside-down “caw! caw!” echoing off the walls.This is often seen as a mating ritual or a way to assert dominance, and both of those things might be true. But it’s also fun. Like most birds, ravens and crows fly to find food, to get from one place to another, for survival. But they also fly for fun. Ravens and crows play. I’ll often see my city crows sliding down roofs when it snows.Taking some time to watch ravens in the wild is endlessly rewarding. They are intelligent, cautious, and shy, so if they see you as an unnecessary threat, they will leave you. But if you have patience and quiet, you can watch them for as long as they allow and your life will be all the better for it.I did

Spring Ranch is "known" as the most haunted ghost town in Nebraska, though I'm not sure by which metric it achieved that knowing.Spring Ranch Cemetery looks like any normal cemetery. There's a gateway, a lane down the middle and your typical array of stones on either side.While I was there photographing, I felt no hauntings, no specters, spooks or haints. There are no ghosts in the ghost town of Spring Ranch, and the cemetery is filled with the town's history, parceled out for those who can read it in marble and granite.I walked softly in Spring Ranch Cemetery. There is a hard history here that you can almost feel. It’s not so different from other pioneer cemeteries. It was hard everywhere in the late 1800s. The life they chose was backbreaking and mentally torturous.This can be seen hiding under the soft veneer of county histories and family recollections. Spring Ranch probably wasn’t much harder than any of the thousands of other frontier towns. But I quickly uncovered two stories that describe and define just how Spring Ranch, and the frontier in general, could break you.Though it contains somewhere around 100 stones, this is one of the larger cemeteries I’ve photographed. My preference lies in the small, abandoned cemeteries dotting the west. But Spring Ranch is almost sprawling in comparison. The main cemetery drive still exists down the center, but on the sides and in the corners are small gatherings of stones here and there.Most are family plots, separated and set aside for no other reason than the cemetery never got the chance to fill itself out. One such assemblage caught me.There was a row of five stones, neatly placed. On the left, the two farthest apart belong to Margaret and John Jones, husband and wife. John died first in 1882, not living long enough to bear witness to what came after. His wife, Margaret, lived to see it all, dying in 1894.To the right are three additional stones, somewhat clustered together. Margaret and John had two children, Elizabeth and Thomas, born in 1848 and 1851, respectively.The Jones Family came to America from Wales, arriving probably in the 1860s. They, like the others, came west across the Plains and settled in Spring Ranch. By the time they settled, Elizabeth and Thomas were likely near to adulthood.The third stone, curiously lying between the children and their parents, is to James Taylor, Elizabeth’s husband, whom she married in 1869 at the age of 21. James was from Missouri and was two years younger than Elizabeth.The preamble to this story is hard to piece together. It was only written about after the occurrence on the bridhauntingsge, when opinions had already been formed and transformed by these events.Somehow or another, at the age of 33, Elizabeth’s husband, James, died. It was 1882, but over the years, his untimely death morphed into an “unexplained” death, and then to a “suspicious” death. Finally, it was assumed that Elizabeth poisoned him with potato bug poison. However it happened, James was dead.Over the course of the next two years, the town turned upon Elizabeth and her brother Thomas, who the papers described as an “unmarried man, whose mother kept house for him.” They were suspected as leaders of a larger gang of cattle thieves and general no-goods.Things came to a head when Edwin Roberts was murdered in January of 1885. According to the Nebraska Signal:Last week, Edwin Roberts, tenant on the farm of Mrs. Taylor in the southwest precinct of Clay County, went down to the Blue [Little Blue River] to cut some bushes, and while at work, Mrs. Taylor, two sons aged twelve and fifteen, and a hired youth not much older by the name of Brewer, drove up near where Roberts was at work.They had with them a loaded shot gun. The younger boy held the team while the others got out and walked up to within a few steps of Roberts and at once shot and killed him.The Taylor Family is said to be very depraved. The parties have been arrested and although the people are much excited over the murder, will probably await the action of the court.The people of Spring Ranch were indeed much excited, but they were not about to await the action of the court. While the governor of Nebraska issued a warrant for the arrest of David Brewer, the locals believed they knew better what happened to Edwin Roberts.Elizabeth’s two sons might have pulled the trigger, but it was Elizabeth and maybe her brother Thomas who were responsible. While Thomas was liked well enough, or at least tolerated, according to the local papers, Elizabeth “had never had a good reputation in the neighborhood.”The same paper went on to describe her as: “not a tall woman, but rather short and stout and has rather a coarse expression about her face that is seldom seen in a woman.”The family, especially after the untimely and/or suspicious death of her husband, James, grew to include what the locals considered a gang.Of this gang, the Lincoln Daily Nebraska State Journal reported:It seems as though there was an organized gang of hard characters in the Jones and Taylor families and there have been more or less strangers stopping among them who would not stop at anything short of murder, if even at that, and it seems as though it was the intention of the community to get rid of the whole pack and parcel of them.Of late there has been a number of fires in the neighborhood, stock has been killed and various other atrocities have been perpetrated. Such things cannot last always and when the gang is routed out, then they will cease and people can live in peace.But there was to be no peace. Again, according to local reports on Elizabeth:After the murder of Roberts and the imprisonment of her two sons, she would always remain overnight at the home of her brother, going back and forth to her own home which is about a mile distant, only during the day. She was always afraid to stay at her own home alone although she was always armed or had arms handy.The home of her brother, Thomas, was a sod house with walls four-feet thick. It was only one story and sat maybe ten feet high. Its front held two small windows and a door. The roof was sod and heavy, requiring four sturdy pillars running through the center of the house to hold it up. The inside was set up more like a stable than a house, with low walls dividing the sleeping quarters from the living spaces.The events that transpired on the night of March 15, 1885, two months after the murder of Roberts, are confused, lied about, and likely forgotten. Reading from contemporary newspapers can only retell so much, but it is all that remains.According to the Hastings Gazette Journal:The mob appeared at the house of Tom Jones wherein were seven persons, Mrs. Jones [Margaret, the mother], Mrs. Taylor [Elizabeth] and her daughter, Maggie, a bright looking girl of five years of age, Nelson Celley, John Foster, Texas Bill [an alias], and an older person by the name of Clark, and a boy whose name no-one knew. As soon as the mob reached the house, they demanded that Mrs. Taylor [Elizabeth] and Tom Jones should come out, but instead of complying with the request, the door of the house was barricaded and other means taken to prevent a forcible entrance.Those inside were well provided with firearms and just why they were not used by them is a mystery as they had just been purchased for such an occasion. After parlaying for some time, the men in the mob were determined to have them out and threatened to throw a bomb of dynamite in the window.At this juncture, Tom Jones asked Texas Bill if he thought it would be safe to go out and was answered that it would. Thereupon Tom Jones said that he would come out and was told by the mob to crawl out of the window, as he would not be allowed to go out of the door and he was also told to leave all firearms behind him and crawl out with his hands up. This he did and upon his appearance was immediately covered with revolvers and guns and was taken to one side and his hands tied with a piece of rope which was procured from some mule harness belonging to Mrs. Taylor.Mrs. Taylor was then ordered to come out and she too came out of the window the same way and had her hands tied also. The men then took them into a little open spot near the house and leaving them under a guard drew off a little ways and held a consultation which ended in Mrs. Taylor and Tom Jones being taken one direction and the other four men who were in the house were taken in another.There was one thing noticeable in the transaction, that while three of the men’s hands were tied, Clark, Celley and a person whose name was not known as he had only been there one or two days, Texas Bill was allowed to go free and he made himself scarce. It is supposed by some that he was in with the mob.Be that as it is, the other three were taken to the house of a Mr. Reese and locked up where they remained until late Sunday morning. The men who had Mrs. Taylor and Tom Jones in charge, told them what they intended doing. The couple then began pleading for mercy, but the men were obdurate. They were given time to pray shortly after having been taken from the house and again when they arrived at the bridge.They both improved the brief opportunity allowed them to pray and when they arrived at the bridge, the ropes which were taken from some halters were adjusted around their necks and they were shoved off into eternity.[Another paper reported: “Tom Jones’ neck was broken, but his sister, Mrs. Taylor, died the terrible death of strangulation.”]The men then went back to the house where they had left Mrs. Jones and Mrs.Taylor’s daughter and begged her pardon for intruding and then took their departure.The bodies remained hanging where they had been hung till Sunday afternoon about 3 o’clock. They were discovered about 8 o’clock in the morning by a woman who was crossing the bridge. Several persons were notified and one of them went to notify the coroner of Clay county, J. S. Liler, who arrived in the afternoon about

All the way back in the first post, I told you about my travels and trials of the summer of 2024. I ever so briefly mentioned visiting and exploring some of the railroad towns along the Virginia/North Carolina border.“I will have much more to say about these towns and this experience in the future (possibly a zine will come of it),” I said, long ago.The future is now! And a book has come of it. [You can get it here.]I’d like to tell you all about it, but I don’t want this just to be some commercial for the new book (which is called Outsider, and I’d love for you to see it). So, instead of just hawking the book, I’d like to take you through the process of how I produce a photography project. Every project must start with a plan.The PlanWhen I travel, I do so based almost entirely around photography. Every stop, every road, every minute of sunlight of every day is about what I can shoot, how, and when. Obviously, I can’t plan for everything, and last year’s trip humbled the hell out of me. But when I plan, I pretend that the plan will not go awry.The bulk of this trip was about cemeteries. For the most part, I ignored the towns, focusing instead on the roads I could take between one old, abandoned cemetery and the next. I figured maybe I could shoot something along the way. It’s a method that has served me well for as long as I’ve done it.There was one section, however, where I wanted to focus on the towns themselves. I used to do this almost exclusively – plan to drive the most interesting roads from one town to the next – and so falling back into that was simple.I discovered these towns for myself through my friend Bob, a fellow photographer and traveler. He was able to capture these towns, focusing mostly on the railroads, but exploring the downtowns and sidestreets as he went. His photos reminded me enough of the ones I used to take, and I wanted a bit of that for myself. Along with Bob’s suggestions, I used Google Maps to solidify my plans.My planning of this area became one of the main focuses of the entire trip. So much so that I wanted to make this an entire project, with a book for the photos and short essays about the history of each town. I’d center it around the railroad (Bob isn’t the only one with an interest in trains; mine dates back to before I can remember) and pick up whatever other history might be lying around.I selected the towns based on where the railroad was or had been. I simply followed the track on the map and noted each town. I then looked through Bob’s photos for that town (he has shot almost all of them) and then decided if it looked like a place where I could make something happen.Of course, the thought of plagiarism was bouncing around my head much of the time. What was the point here? What was I doing? But I wasn’t just copying Bob. We see things in different ways. Even if we had shot together, the results would be almost like we photographed separate towns.I would start in McKenney, Viriginia along the I-85 corridor and move south, zig-zagging through places like Stoney Creek, Capron, and Boykins, before crossing the line into North Carolina for Rich Square, Aulander, Robersonville, Rocky Mount, and Roanoke Rapids. I’d end by trailing off west with Henderson, Oxford, and Roxboro.The GearThere are some projects that demand an almost chaotic array of photos, taken with various cameras or lenses, a multitude of styles, and as many different emulsions as possible: color, black & white, and numerous samplings of all of them.For this project, however, what I wanted was uniformity. Every photo wasn’t to look the same, of course. I’m neither Bernd nor Hilla Becher here to create a typology of small southern railroad towns. But still, I wanted it to all be of a piece.What I expected from the middle-south in July was heat, humidity, and sunshine. I keep saying I’m moving away from color, but it keeps dragging me back. And so color it was. I had recently received about twenty rolls of Kodak Ektachrome E100S which expired in July of 2002, nearly 23 years ago. I had already used a roll or two, and knew it was good, and knew it was well-behaved in how I develop color.I develop all of my color film using the ECN-2 process. I make my own kits from raw chemicals. I even sell them and you can buy them, but this isn’t a commercial.My go-to camera is a Mamiya RB67 with a 90mm lens, one of the early lenses shaped like a bell with less coating than the newer ones. It’s a camera that makes a statement, but it’s also my daily driver. I considered running the film through a 1912 Kodak Brownie box camera, but I thought it would be a better idea to have some sort of control over the exposure. I will never know if this was the right decision. But that’s how projects work.The ExecutionBut that’s also not how projects work. Projects change over time, over the course of doing them. When planning, we have to be rigid enough to stick to our project but flexible enough to change and adapt rather than giving up.I had spent too much time in Pennsylvania, and I knew I would have to cut parts of the trip short, but I wanted to keep the Virginia/North Carolina portions intact. My original plan was to explore a bit of the Blue Ridge Mountain towns, but I cut that to save this.My first night out of Pennsylvania, I camped at a private campground that I think used to be a KOA. In the west, where I usually travel, camping is often very cheap in National Forest campgrounds or free on BLM or other federal land. The East Coast is different, but I knew that going into this. The campground was expensive in comparison, and I’d have to get a hotel room or two before all this was out. This might be my most expensive photography project to date (those hotel rooms add up quick).After setting up the tent, I headed out for some evening shots of Dewitt, McKenney, and Wesson. I was already off the original plan. In each town, I’d park and just walk around. I had noted a few landmarks here and there to draw my attention, but mostly I just wanted to see what the towns had to offer. It was a Sunday night, and every town, even the busy ones, was empty.On Baker Street in Emporia – a town that wasn’t in my original planning – I found a colorful row of boarded-up storefronts that once were an extension of their still-busy downtown.With each photograph I took, I was trying to think forward and back, “would this shot work with the others I’ve already taken?” It’s a question that’s fairly unnecessary to a project, but I find myself editing on the fly, and it feels right for me, so I usually go with it.The sun was near setting, so I returned to my car, and then to my tent, and then to sleep.The next day was the biggest. Like any day I travel, every minute of light is a minute when I’m working. I rarely take breaks, and often have to force myself to stop for lunch. I did not eat lunch this day.I collected a few shots in a few towns early, but nothing really seemed to be working at first. I couldn’t find my place in the day, and was getting a little worried.On my list was the Nat Turner memorial. There was nothing to photograph here, but I just wanted to see it. In 1831, Nat Turner led a slave revolt that scared the hell out of the country. It lasted for four days before being put down by the military. When I drove to the spot of the memorial, I found nothing at all. With a sigh, I moved on, crossing into North Carolina.In Conway, I found small cottages along Church Street. There was a story here, but I couldn’t tell what it was. Were these repurposed company houses built by the railroad? Whatever the history, the morning light was beautiful upon them.I drove, walked, and photographed my way through these towns as the sun rose towards midday and a more uniform light fell over everything.It was mid-morning when I entered the town of Ahoskie. A quick drive through downtown showed me a thousand possible photos. I parked and spent an hour walking up and down its streets.In some ways, I am an explorer, but I rarely take my time to truly explore a town. I rely on happenstance and planning. I don’t dig as much as I should, as much as I would like to. But here I did.The downtown is not dead, but it has consolidated, leaving many vacant storefronts standing. It was Monday morning, and many of the shops that were still open were still closed for the weekend.But in the window of an old storefront that was now being used as a nondenominational church, I framed the reflection of an old appliance store across the street. “Color / Zenith / Color” read the sign, not fully faded in the lifetime of sunlight it’s endured. I shot the store straight on as well. The light was wonderful.I took a similar walk through Williamston, framing a shot of a former service station still holding to its foundation next to a 70s looking Wells Fargo building.Nearby, in Robersonville, the town was built around the railroad, with the track splitting what was once the main thoroughfare. There, I found an aging funeral home, a barber shop that hadn’t seen a customer since the 80s, former banks and ministries. As in the other towns, they weren’t dead, but compressed. I have seen enough small towns to know that these were still very much alive.But there was something markedly different about them. It wasn’t that something was off or I felt unwelcomed – I knew all too well what that was like; some of the towns in the west and even midwest almost encourage you not to stop. This was welcoming and friendly. There was a lived-in warmth here. But there was also a story in these towns that I just wasn’t getting.I photographed a few more and found a hotel in Tarboro, but didn’t explore the town. After a bit of a rest, I did a late afternoon run into Rocky Mount, the hometown of jazz pianist Thelonius Monk. There was a mural of him that I wanted to see and photograph, but I had no idea where it was. This would give me a chance to explore the town on foot.Between Hill Street and Nash, I walked Chur

I’ve got two things to talk about today and they’re both sort of related. The first thing is about getting to know your favorite photographers better, but also why to not put them on a pedestal. Sort of. You’ll see.And the second thing is about questions. Sometimes they’re annoying, but we need to be cool. I’ll explain why, but it’s basic human empathy.Kill Your Idols (To Love Them More)In punk rock, there used to be a saying “Kill Your Idols”. I think Sonic Youth made it popular, but it definitely existed before them. Above the many tenets and contradictory notions in punk rock, “kill your idols” is something that everyone generally agrees with, but almost nobody actually does.Many of us in the punk scene, ignored the mainstream and focused on local scenes and independent music. While this is something that probably should be transferred into the photography scene, that’s not exactly what I’m talking about.There are some photographers who seem to exist outside of time. Take the most famous photographer of them all: Ansel Adams. His career spanned decades and his most well-known photographs – those taken in our National Parks – have little obvious connection to a specific era. They might have been taken yesterday or 100 years ago.We know some of his pieces so well that it’s hard to envision a life without them. They are a part of us, a part of American heritage. They have always existed and always will.Because of this, taking Adams’s work as a whole is difficult. Where do we start? Even coffee table books containing hundreds of his photos disperse them almost randomly, with little thought given to the journey he was on, focusing instead on how these photos look to us now.This makes sense, since the audience for these books are people who aren’t photographers and aren’t necessarily interested in the breadth of Adams's work.I’m using Ansel as an example we can all relate to. But this is true with most photographers. And especially true with photographers not as well known as Adams.Maybe you’ve come across a photo by Imogen Cunningham or Diane Arbus or Alfred Steiglitz or anybody, really, and, while you liked the photo, placing it within a larger context of their lives or even history in general is difficult. Often a date will accompany it, but that means almost nothing to us.We might be able to understand this better when thinking about music. There are bands, like Parliament/Funkadelic, XTC, Springsteen, or Zappa, whose discographies are massive and their songs seem to exist, like the photos of Ansel Adams, apart from time.You might have heard a few Sinatra songs, maybe “Come Fly With Me” or “My Way” and wanted to hear more, so you listened to one of the many Greatest Hits albums. But even that, like most photographic coffee table books, gives you a fine overview, but fails to place the songs into the context of Sinatra’s discography, his career, his life, and our larger history.I’ve done this with a bunch of bands as well. I mentioned my friend Brad in the last episode. One day, he dropped an XTC CD in my hand - Apple Venus Vol. 1. I listened to it and loved it, but didn’t really understand how a band could get to this odd point. So I started at the beginning, listening to their first album, their second, third, fourth, their entire discography through to their final album. It was wonderful to listen to a band create and change and reinvent themselves over and over.This is absolutely applicable to photographers. Seeing what an artist first creates shows us where they’re coming from. Seeing how they change, shows us how their lives and influences have affected their work.And I do think this matters. Maybe not to the general fan of photography, but to a photographer working on their own pieces, trying to find their voice, trying to keep going, it matters.We never look at dates on photos unless the photos are documentary in nature. We just see a photo and it exists. Maybe it always existed. We don't know which came first or what came second. We don't know what came before or what came after. We might enjoy the photos, but knowing the context helps us understand the artist.Understanding a photographer’s full body of work, its chronology, and (to maybe a lesser extent) the photographer’s biography, helps us, as photographers, put our own work in the larger light of our lives.But I also think there’s a better reason to understand this context. Many photographers, from Adams to Cunningham, Sally Mann to Dorothea Lange, seem like gods to us. There is a sort of pantheon of photographers who seem above us, beyond us, untouchable.Humanizing the popular photographers we like might go a long way towards this killing, essentially killing the idol part of our idols. Tearing down that pantheon, erasing the line between the greats and ourselves.Because, of course, they were humans just like us. They were photographers just like us. They had some beautiful moments, and some crashing disasters, just like us. They were obviously good at their craft, but so are we. The line separating us from them isn’t nearly the wide gulf we often believe it to be. Our work is as important as theirs. To ourselves, our own work should be (and is) more important.Learning about the photographers we like humanizes them. If we stop seeing them as celebrities, as famous people apart from us, it allows them to become more human, and their work more relatable. Seeing their most popular photos alongside their mostly-ignored photos helps us understand our own hits and misses. Seeing their journey helps us understand our own.When we get into slumps we can see that these other artists have too. We know our own chronology. We know the s**t that we produced early on. We know the successes, the beginner's luck, the bad rolls, bad shots, and general f**k ups. We often allow our own mistakes to define us, control us. But all the photographers we admire went through that too. Maybe their f**k ups are lost to antiquity, but they existed. They were there.There’s one event in my life that solidified this belief for me. You might remember the name Evelyn Cameron from my previous podcast. She was a photographer who worked in Montana in the late 1800s and early 1900s. She photographed the local landscapes and the ranch life of eastern Montana. I don’t remember how I got into her, but I had a book that told a brief sketch of her life and then a random scattering of her photos.The next summer, I traveled to Terry, Montana, where there are two museums and galleries dedicated to her. I visited the galleries and saw prints she made herself, some of her clothing (including her famous pith helmet) and had a wonderful time.The main county history museum, located in an old bank, has almost nothing of Cameron in it. Except, in the vault are contact prints made directly from all 700 or so of her glass plates. They were cataloged and kept in binders (the actual plates, along with her Graflex camera named Lexie, are in the state museum in Helena).The person watching the museum allowed me to spend as long as I wanted with these contact prints, all 5x7 printed on 8x10 paper (I think I’m remembering this correctly).The photos contained in the book I had and galleries I visited total maybe 100 or so. It’s a small fraction of her archive. But now, that entire archive was right there before me.This was my first trip shooting 4x5. It was the same trip as the Utah Canyon mishap (one hell of a trip, right?). So I was making a slew of rookie mistakes all over the place. I was forgetting to close the shutter after focusing, I had light leaks from bad holders, I missed focus, had bad composition.And as I leafed through Evelyn’s archive, I saw these same mistakes. She had some bad holders too. She overexposed sometimes, she missed focus, sometimes her composition was off and she retook the photo. I recognized the same developing mishaps that I was making too.Suddenly, this amazing photographer, this artist who I had placed on an untouchable pedestal, was human. She was still a brilliant photographer, but she also fucked up a lot, just like I did. And she wasn’t doing this only at the beginning of her work. All throughout, she made mistakes, just like we still do.If someone would have asked me before seeing her archive if I thought Cameron was some untouchable idol, I would have said no, of course. Intellectually I knew she was a fallible human. But knowing something intellectually and seeing the evidence of it right there before you are two different things. That day, I actually realized that the photographers we look up to are less up and more by our sides than we tend to believe.That day, I killed my idol. But I also drew closer to her. I saw something of her work that so few have seen. I went from really liking the photography of Evelyn Cameron to falling in love with her work, the town she called home, and the landscapes she photographed.And I realize this experience is rare. We are almost never afforded this opportunity. But with some of the more popular photographers, archives are available, and if we can, we should arrange to visit them.In most other cases, we might have to do some digging and some used book buying. We might have to read some biographies and begin making a sort of archive ourselves, noting the chronology of their popular photos and digging deeper to find less famous shots (or even mistakes) to place around them.This is a daunting task and a pain in the ass. But in quite a few cases, there are retrospectives and anthologies that are arranged chronologically with hefty bios for introductions. These bios usually reference and contextualize the photos, essentially doing our work for us. All we have to do is look.Unfortunately, a lot of books, even anthologies, don’t put the photos in chronological order. There’s an amazing and huge Anne Brigman book that is one of my favorites to just flip through, but the photos have no relation to her chronology. Fortunately, there’s anot

I’ve got two pieces for you today. First, you’ve probably got way too many cameras, and I’d like to make you feel bad about that. Kidding, kidding. But I would like to talk about how we can and why we should narrow down the cameras we use.Second is: this past week I got an idea and I want to run it by you. It involves Tolkien and the sea.You Have Too Many CamerasLast episode, I told you all about my hike into Bullet Canyon, weighed down by not enough water and a few too many cameras. While the water issue was a lesson well-learned, the camera situation was not.On that hike, I brought along five different cameras. This was less than half of the cameras I brought along for the trip. I left seven or eight in the car.My photography from this time was pretty hit or miss. I was still working with 35mm cameras, and was still dabbling in toy cameras. I had just gotten my Mamiya RB67 and had no idea how to really use it. I wasn’t exactly a novice, I had been shooting for years by that point. But I was unfocused, shooting an ever-changing variety of cameras. I was experimenting.Historically, in the film era, most photographers had one camera. Some of the more wealthy ones had a few, but still, most focused upon a single camera. It wasn’t uncommon to settle on a specific emulsion and developer, as well.They bought new cameras, of course, but often sold or gave away their old ones. Photographers were interested in the photos first, the cameras second.With the plethora of used cameras ever since digital took over, the photograph has often taken a back seat to the camera. Or rather, the cameras. The many, many cameras.There were camera and lens collectors back then, but they were pretty rare. Today, they’re almost the norm. It’s a safe bet that the majority of you listening to this have a half dozen or more cameras. I myself have several dozen. It’s honestly a bit ridiculous.I have five Argus C3s (aka The Brick). Why? I’ve got four or five Exaktas, a couple of Pentax, various 620 cameras, a few old box cameras, two RB67s, some random 4x5s, and my god, I really hate talking about gear.My point is that we have a lot of cameras and for the collectors, that’s a good thing. That’s the point of collecting. But for the photographer, I think it’s a bad idea.I’m not saying it’s a bad idea to own however many cameras you can stomach owning. Collect all the cameras you want. What I’m saying is that I think if we’re going to get serious about photography, we need to focus on a single camera.Why Just One?“Let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand,” wrote Henry David Thoreau in Walden, “instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail... Simplify, simplify.” Of course, he wrote Walden while living rent free on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s land, with Emerson’s wife cooking his meals, and his own mom doing his laundry. But still, it’s not bad advice.Simplifying our lives seems daunting. There’s no simple way to do it, which is somewhat ironic. So why not start with photography? Simplify, simplify by weeding out the cameras we no longer use, no longer like, no longer want. Simply further by selecting the one camera that motivates us, inspires us to create.If you’re going on a trip or a hike, take a single damn camera. Stop taking six or ten or however many cameras with you. Absolutely nobody is impressed and it’s just confusing.Picking just one camera allows us to become experts with that camera. I don’t mean just your make and model, I mean the specific camera you hold in your hand. These cameras aren’t new. Each has their own unique tricks and quirks. Maybe the shutter is a bit slow or the film advances oddly. Maybe the focus is a bit off or there's just something weird about it. The film counter on my Mamiya 645 doesn’t flip back to zero when I’m done with a roll. I have to manually turn the gear inside the film compartment backwards each time. Whatever it is, the more you use it, the more you will become an expert at using your camera.On the practical side, using just one camera saves us money. Granted, it’s money we’ll just end up spending on film and developing, but still. We’ll no longer feel the need to browse Ebay for our next camera. We’ll not bother with antique stores or swap meets. Yard sales will have even less appeal to us.More than anything, however, I’ve found that settling upon a single camera also eliminates that weird drive for more gear - what some folks call GAS, gear acquisition syndrome. Eventually, that drive to get another lens, another body, and yet another lens will just go away. That urge to spend your money on some random camera will be replaced with the urge to photograph, to actually use the camera you already have.I recently wrote about the various bad advice we photographers are given when we’re looking for inspiration. My least favorite of all was the idea that buying a new piece of gear will inspire you. It’s b******t. First, that’s not inspiration. Second, we need to learn how to find that inspiration within ourselves, with our own cameras. This is why picking the right camera for you is so important.Picking FavoritesI have a horrible time at picking a favorite anything. If someone asks me what my favorite movie is, I don’t even know how to begin the selection process. A favorite song? Do you mean now? Yesterday? Last year? I can’t wrap my head around how people even have such a thing as a favorite.So picking a favorite camera should be just as daunting. Except that’s not really the same thing, is it? You had nothing to do with your favorite movie or favorite song. You weren’t involved in the creation of either. They came to you, perfectly formed and in their final product. In fact, they are products and you are the consumer.It’s not quite the same as having a favorite camera. With a camera, you are not the consumer (at least, not after you bought it). You are the producer, the artist, the creator. The relationship we have with the instruments used to create our work is a different relationship than we have towards almost anything else.But we do still have to pick a favorite, and even with cameras, I’m really bad at it. Narrowing down our collections is not an easy thing to do. Simplifying isn’t necessarily simple. But I do have a few tips.First, take a look at your work, especially the pieces that you’re especially proud of. Don’t look up or try to remember which camera and lens you used to take the photos. Just go by instinct and select a few dozen that really move you. With them all together there staring you in the face, sort them by camera. Which one allowed you to take your favorite photos?Of course, it’s probably not going to be that simple. So maybe start with remembering how each camera made you feel. Which was the most fun to use? Which brought you the most happiness? Which camera, when you see it, makes you smile?And then there’s the practical reasons to keep a camera. Maybe if you really like hiking, a 35mm is a good choice. What is the best camera to use for the work you normally produce?In the end, there’s no formula for this, and you might make the wrong decision. In one way, the gear we have doesn’t matter. We tell ourselves that “any camera is able to take a wonderful photo in the right hands.” And this isn’t necessarily untrue, but we’re looking for the perfect camera for us. The one that makes you feel like a damn photographer.Obviously There Are ExceptionsHere’s where I break in and tell you that I do not shoot with a single camera. I have a good excuse for this, too, though it’s more of a justification than anything. I shoot two formats: large and medium, 4x5 and 120. I have one daily driver (so to speak) for each of the formats.I actually suggest this. If you shoot 35mm and 120, then I don’t see any reason to force yourself into picking a single format. I want us to simply, not go crazy. Each format offers things that other formats can’t. Whether it’s the portability of 35 or the scope of 4x5 or 8x10, each format allows us to photograph the same subject in wildly different ways.That said, try not to use that as a justification to just collect more cameras. Remember, we are simplifying, not collecting.What About Lenses?One of my least favorite things to talk about (or to listen to others talk about) is lenses. I realize and understand that they’re all not the same, and that each lens has a variety of different and important attributes. But all talk about lenses is the same, and it’s all unfathomably boring. Especially when compared to actually using a lens.So here is my very short spiel about lenses: pick a few you like and get rid of the rest. You don’t have to explain why you like them (and it’s better for everyone if you don’t). And you don’t even have to understand why you made the selections you did. Just do it and get on with your life.We have now reached the end of my lens talk.What Do I Do With All These Cameras?But what do we do with all our cameras; with the dozens we’ve collected over the years? Hell, some we’ve probably never even shot. To put it plainly, I don’t know. I don’t have an answer for this. I still own dozens and dozens of cameras. I haven’t shot 35mm in years, yet I’ve got more of those than anything else. Why? I don’t know. I have no answers here.My point isn’t to get rid of the cameras you have (though we probably should). It’s not about owning stuff or not owning stuff. It’s about creating our work, improving our skills and our desires to produce. I feel it’s easier to do that with a single camera.And I know that doesn’t answer the question. In my case, who the hell would want some Exaktas that basically work? What about my weird ass box cameras? And that Mamiya 645 with the broken counter; I couldn’t force that upon someone, it’s a ridiculous thing to deal with.But then, every camera has its quirks. Maybe it would click with someone. So if you feel weird about selling off most of your collection, why n

Hello and welcome! I’ve got a story for you. It’s about the time I dragged way too many cameras into a Utah Canyon. Did I get any photos? Did I see cool stuff? Did I ever return? Find out! This is a longer one, so strap on your backpacks, grab your cameras, and make sure you have enough water. We’re going in.I stood overlooking the canyon two hundred feet below me, deepening, falling and twisting west into the late July sunset. Returning to my tent, pitched under the relative shade of a cluster of juniper trees, I checked my pack. I was nervous and alone.Solitude had marked every turn of this trip and now, after nearly a month on the road, I was worn. This was my final stop and in a few days I would be home. But first, I needed to explore the canyon below me.I don’t remember when or how I first heard of Bullet Canyon, a tributary to Utah’s Grand Gulch in Bears Ears National Monument, but seeing photos of Ancestral Puebloan cliff houses and kivas, nearly untouched, I had to experience these myself.In the spring and autumn, this is a popular trail seeing a couple groups a week. By July, with temperatures often over 100F in the depths of the canyon, there’s nobody. In March and April, there are several springs and even a stream at the bottom of Bullet Canyon. By July, they’ve been dried up for months. Any water you need has to be carried in.This was far from my first ten mile desert hike. I fully understood the need for carrying more water than you think you’ll need. The heat itself, not to mention the physical act of walking ten miles, would dehydrate me. I knew the symptoms of heat exhaustion and the dangers of succumbing to it alone. I’ve learned how to hike in these places from experience. This wouldn’t even be my first summer Utah canyon hike. It was, however, my longest.I emptied my pack to make sure I had everything I wished to bring into the canyon. I had a 4x5 camera (I was shooting an Intrepid then), wrapped in a dark cloth with a 150mm lens, six film holders (so, twelve shots) and a small tripod. I also brought two 35mm cameras: a Ricoh and a Soviet-era Smena 8M. For overkill, I also carried a plastic 1960s Imperial Savoy and the metal Ansco Color Clipper. Five cameras just in case.I also carried my lunch, some snacks, and 1.5 gallons of water. This would be a ten mile hike along some fairly rough trails. I sliprockhad my map, my ten essentials, and a little less courage than I thought I might.Through the night I heard coyotes and owls. But there were no visitors, no other campers, no other hikers. I drifted into sleep alone and woke up before dawn alone.Striking my tent in the pre-dawn, I stashed it in my car parked at the trailhead. I slid my arm through a strap on my pack, and then the other, jumping a bit to settle the weight. I buckled the belt, picked up my trekking poles and looked out over the canyon once more. The light was enough that I could see much of the day before me, though much of the canyon was hidden behind bends and turns.At the start of the trail is a register. Every hiker is expected to sign in, noting the date and time. I was the only hiker in over a month. If anything happened to me, there’s almost no chance I’d be stumbled upon before I was bones. I had told folks at home where I’d be hiking and when to expect me: probably around 1pm, but 3 or even 4pm at the latest, and if I wasn’t back by five, they knew to contact emergency services. There was limited cell service at the trailhead and nothing at all in the canyon. Except me. I was the only one here.I stood overlooking the canyon two hundred feet below me. There was no real path to get inside, though I could see one at the bottom leading to a dry wash that would serve as a trail. There were car-size sandstone boulders strewn along the descent. There were a few juniper trees clinging as they could to various smaller cliffs. And I picked my way along them, lowering myself, sliding from tree to tree, and wondering how the hell I was going to get back up.The thought of turning around haunted me and I brushed it aside. There was some danger, to be sure, but it’s not like this was an unexplored trail. I would pull myself out of the canyon when it was time.A number of rock cairns guided me from sliprock to sliprock until I finally reached the bottom: a red and hardened sand wash among some taller junipers. The sun must have been up by then, but I wouldn’t be able to see it until it was much higher in the sky. And by then, I knew I needed to be nearly at my turnaround spot, about five miles down the canyon from where I now stood.The descent took something like two hours.I rested for a few minutes when I hit the bottom, and then continued, making good time as the walls of the canyon grew taller and more narrow as the wash cut deeper into the land. I walked and felt the weight of the pack. Mostly, it was the water. A gallon and a half weighs over 12lbs. I considered stashing some of it along the trail, but if I were going to do that, I would have carried an extra bottle. I was going to need all 12lbs of this water. With that, I took a drink.As I walked, I could already feel the temperatures inside the canyon rising. It can be as much as ten degrees hotter inside than on top. The air is compressed down here and compressed air releases heat. The difference wouldn’t be so stark just yet, but as the hours wore on and as I pressed on, soon I would feel it.Not long after starting from the bottom, a stone tower overlooked me on the cliff heights above. It was today’s first Ancient Puebloan ruin, and much too high for my lenses. I paused for a moment in appreciation and felt like I was being observed from above.This tower saw me lumber on, pack now weighing upon me, digging into my shoulders. There wasn’t pain so much, but I could tell that pain wasn’t far away. My feet weren’t yet aching, but they would be before long. And it saw me take another drink.The trail itself isn’t really a trail at all, and it’s hardly ever used. It’s a dry wash, sometimes deep with sand, sometimes (and more usually) strewn with the debris of flash floods — trees, boulders, a tangled mess to stumble and cut my way through.There were miles of this, with the canyon meandering and bending sometimes almost back in upon itself. And with each mile, I descended deeper into Grand Gulch. The canyon walls grew taller as the temperatures rose higher.I was often fully exposed out of necessity. The easiest path was the wash, with much of the rest of the floor tangled in brush and thorns. The wash was also a highway of sorts for wildlife. Mostly it was deer prints, pressed softly into the red earth. Here and there were small skittery footprints of lizards and rodents. At times there were side paths, likely made by animals, and sometimes they were shortcuts. Other times they simply disappeared into thickets. It was best to tramp out in the open. But it was also hot.The sun had finally found its way into my narrow skies, though by now the canyon was widening and still growing deeper, like I was being swallowed. I walked with the 35mm Ricoh around my neck, snapping a shot here and there.There were times when the canyon floor would open up to an almost pastoral setting. Golden grasses waved in whatever breeze was blessing us, and at one point, a tall cottonwood tree grew among them. With the sun now higher, its leaves twinkled and I did my best to photograph it.But then the canyon closed up once more, the walls grew nearer, and the floor dropped about six or seven feet. If this dry stream bed wasn’t dry, here would have spilled a waterfall. I assessed the situation. I could slide down it, but could I scramble back up? There was no way around this. Though the top of the canyon here was wide, the stream had cut a near perfect V shape, funneling everything, including me, to this drop.With no small amount of apprehension, I slid down the dry waterfall. At the bottom was a rock cairn marking the way, almost tauntingly as there was no other way to go.Here the path was narrow and the closest walls very close. This cast shadows even in the late morning. I stopped here to do a full rest and take a drink.A full rest, at least for me, is where I take my pack off and lie down with no weight on my feet. I try to do this for ten minutes. When I’m anxious and excited it is less. When I am dragging and beat, it is more. Now it was less. I was still feeling good.I removed the Ansco Color Clipper from my pack and took a bad photo of the dry waterfall. I exchanged it with the Ricoh, always wanting to have one camera at the ready. This would also distribute the weight. My shoulders might give some faint thanks, but my knees and feet would not tell the difference.The going was slow and I was slow and stopped here and there for photos and water. It had been four hours since I had reached the bottom. The sun was not quite at meridian, but was closer than I had hoped. I was not making good time, though the point of this hike wasn’t to get back quickly, but to experience the Ancient Puebloan cliff dwellings. And now, after nearly six hours total since I left camp, they were here. Somewhere.Within a half-mile of each other were the two main sites I wanted to visit. This canyon and an adjoining one contain dozens of such places with pictographs and petroglyphs decorating them all. Today, I had time only for two. But these were the two prized sites. And they were here before me if I could only find them.One of the features of these cliff dwellings is that they were difficult to spot and difficult to access. I knew roughly where they were, and scanned the cliff walls with squinted eyes.Two circles about a hundred or more feet up caught my eye. There it was, Jailhouse Ruins, the second of the two sites, which meant that I missed the first, known as Perfect Kiva.Getting close wouldn’t be an issue. The canyon was carved out in layers and moving from one layer to the next usually wasn’t an issue. But to move up se

I have not picked up a camera yet this year. My last photo was taken in a cemetery on New Year's Eve. I don’t miss it, and I don’t worry that I may never pick one up again. I’m fairly certain I will, I’m a photographer, after all. What I also don’t worry about is inspiration.The way I shoot is much like a travel photographer on assignment. I rarely touch a camera if I’m not on the road (at least a daytrip), and I’ve never worried that I won’t be inspired to photograph once I leave town. It’s just not something that crosses my mind anymore.But it’s late winter, and a lot of photographers start getting a little worried that they’ll never photograph again, that nothing will motivate them to look through the viewfinder, that nothing will inspire them. And that must be a little terrifying.I know it is. I used to live with that fear, especially in winter.For many of us, we spend the spring, summer, and autumn with cameras in hand and backlogs of film piling up to develop. We share our weekend trips on social media the week following an outing, and then do it all over again.But when winter comes, we rest, like it’s natural for us to do. Our time with the camera lessens or even stops. Most terrifying of all, we run out of things to share on social media. And then we panic.This can easily be blamed on social media, and it’s certainly exacerbated the problem. But this drive not to create, but to produce has been around since the first artist showed a painting on a cave wall and was asked “this great, Ogg, but what you do next?”Art and consumption have always gone hand-in-hand, but art and consumption are blood enemies, as they should be. Is what we think of as our lack of inspiration actually just fear that we have nothing to produce, that we have no product? Maybe. We’ll get there.But first let’s make sure we’re on the same page when it comes to inspiration. A lot of times when we talk about it, we’re actually talking about motivation. There are entire books written about the differences, but essentially, motivation is usually an external force driving us towards a goal. It’s almost transactional, but not in a bad way. Maybe we’re motivated to do a project or make a zine, or even finish a roll of film. Inspiration is internal, it comes from within ourselves. It’s often spontaneous and unpredictable, which renders most advice about it sort of pointless.The word “inspiration” originally came to us from French where it meant “to breathe air into.” But in English, it was first used figuratively: to infuse thought or feeling into a person so they could create. It figuratively meant to breathe in creativity. Naturally, with all that creativity in our figurative lungs, we couldn’t help but make art. Literally.Is this why it feels like we’re suffocating when we can’t find our inspiration? Is this why it feels like we’re dying? Is this why we’re willing to believe and follow almost any advice in some hope to breathe again?I love the metaphor. Art is life and inspiration is breath. It just feels so perfect and wonderful. But I think it lends itself to b******t. At least, that’s the feeling I get when I read articles or watch YouTube videos about finding your inspiration.One article I came across on a website aimed at “creative professionals” and photographers specifically was a scattershot list of disconnected ideas that require a lot of inspiration to even work up the motivation to do.Things like: “Experiment with Different Genres” and “Do Something Differently” and “Do a Personal Project.” They all seem like they were written by someone who forgot what “inspiration” was.The videos I’ve come across are all nearly identical and pretty useless if you’re suffering from whatever we call the photographer’s version of writer's block. They seem to blame it on impostor syndrome — the feeling that you’re just not good enough — and their advice is “try a bunch of different genres” which they then list. And then the video ends.But I don’t think lists are a cure here. I don’t think we can rattle off advice like “Find Inspiration in Nature” and be done with it. I think it’s lazy and useless.There’s one bit of advice that drives me insane, and this could absolutely be my bias showing, but it’s “buy more gear.” I cannot stress this enough - it’s not your gear. A new lens is not going to reignite your lost inspiration. If one does, you didn’t lack inspiration, you lacked drive or were just bored and that’s not the same thing.Much of the other advice seems to be grasping at straws just to have something to talk about. “Shoot a specific color,” one reads. “Try a new focal length,” attempts another. I suppose they mean well, but have they ever talked to someone actually suffering from lack of inspiration?They probably think they have. And that’s because as soon as we feel ourselves take a pause, we assume we’re losing something. We really aren’t, we’re just breathing in. It’s not even a rest. And that’s why these throw-away bits of advice seem to work: they’re not for people actually lacking inspiration. They’re written for people generally new to photography and uncertain what to photograph next. And that’s okay, but it’s not what we’re talking about.I really hate to say this because it sounds dickish and pompous, but I think there are two kinds of photographers (at least). One whose primary focus is usually upon photography, and the other whose primary focus is usually upon collecting cameras. There is some crossover, of course, it’s sort of a spectrum, but I think this sums it up. And both are equally fine. There’s nothing wrong with treating photography as an art just as there’s nothing wrong with collecting cameras.When it comes to inspiration and being desperate for it, the lack of it is like gasping for air. This whole metaphor probably applies more to the photographers who lean more towards the art end of photography. It goes with the territory. It’s not a badge of honor or anything to brag about. It is what it is.Most people whose focus is upon collecting cameras and buying new gear don’t have to think much about inspiration in taking a photo. And that’s okay. That’s not their primary focus. Again, they’re not who we’re talking about.And to be fair, I have come across some actual useful advice. Some folks say to look at other visual art apart from photography, or at the very least look at photos that look nothing like something you’d normally take. Others say to find other photographers and try to talk it out if you can get around the gear talk. I think finding a few photographers who are also friends can help immensely. I’ll never downplay the good effects of having a community.A few also suggest “taking a break.” This might seem like s**t advice since you’re obviously already taking a break because literally nothing is inspiring to you, but it really is good advice if you go into it properly.I take a break every winter. It’s just part of my schedule. I don’t worry about it. I don’t fear that I won’t come back. I don’t really give it much thought anymore. I don’t give it any power over me. I am taking the break on my terms, not out of lack of inspiration, but because I’m stepping back for a time.I’m still a photographer; I still love photography. I still think about it constantly. But I’m just not doing it right now. Even if it coincides with a lack of inspiration, take your breaks on your terms. Get that rest, that separation. Don’t concern yourself with coming back. And maybe, if you’re brave enough, be okay with never taking another photo. It’s a weird detachment, but if you need to go that far, go that far.But here’s the thing about inspiration, the thing that the articles and videos won’t mention: I can’t tell you what to do to get inspired. Nobody can. We can throw out ideas and, sure, something might be jogged inside of you, but that inspiration has to come from yourself. I know it’s not what most of us want to hear, but what inspires me to keep going will not be what inspires you to do the same.Oh, but this doesn’t mean I don’t have my own advice! We’ve come this far, did you really think I was just going to drop you off here? In this economy?My advice is to question yourself. Why do you want to be a photographer? This isn’t an easy question. Answering “I like photography” isn’t going to cut it. Why do you want to do this?This is not asking “What do you want to photograph?” or “What do you want to get out of photography?” Those are about the product, about motivation. We’re not talking about that. We’re talking about: why do you even want to be a photographer?The answer might not even be something you can put into words. And to be honest, I’m not sure words are the best way to express this. Think about this. Picture how you’ve worked in the past. Remember setting up shots, remember how you framed and composed something.I’m not asking you to look at your old work, though that’s often some of the better advice, and feel free to follow that at some point. But that’s not what I’m asking of you right now. Forget about the product, forget about the photos, the books, the zines, the prints, the projects for now. Why do you want to be a photographer?Why do you want to pick up the camera? What was so deep inside of you that only a camera could find it? Why do you want to be a photographer? Why not a writer? Why not a painter? Why not a musician? What can’t those arts give to you what photography can?When people come looking for inspiration, I understand that they’re not also looking for an existential crisis. But if inspiration is the air that we breathe in, a lack of it is literally (well, figuratively) existential. It’s not something that can be brushed aside with “buy a new lens” or “try being a street photographer,” it’s far more important than that. It deserves to be treated with all the respect that deeply questioning yourself and your motives entails.If you are in a creative rut, it’s something you’re going to have to work yourse

I grew up in a rural town in central Pennsylvania surrounded by rolling hills we called mountains and creeks we called “cricks.” It was often lush and green through summer. The earth was dark clay, and when the farmers would run their plows through it, the discs would produce lines of packed soil. It was typically east coast - every small town had a main street, a school and dueling pizza and hoagie shops.While the spring brought flowers, and the autumn an array of color, the winters were bitter, and in summer the skies were white with a humidity so thick that even on a 70 degree morning, your shirt was soaked with sweat from just walking outside.But this was my home, and I knew little more. My parents took us on vacations each year, but most of those were relatively local — the shore, the nearby state park, New England, and once we went to Florida.The plan was always to go west. Not just in my life, but in the lives of generations before me. Even the earliest of white European settlers longed to move west from the shores of Jamestown and Plymouth. The overflowing cities gave way to a small colonialist migration on the Wilderness Road to Kentucky. The fur trade pulled mountain trappers like Jim Bridger deeper into the West. The Gold Rush and Homestead Act drew even more from one coast to the other, pushing aside or slaughtering anything and anyone in their path. And all through our teenage years, fueled by Springsteen songs and movies, we too longed for California.But even California seemed like a reflection of the east coast to me. Every TV show and movie purported to take place in the east was filmed in California. Shoot around the palm trees and maybe toss in some fake snow and you’ve got Anytown, Pennsylvania.The draw to get out, get on the road, and head to California was ingrained. Our parents fought against it, but we knew. We, in all of our teenage angst and certainty, knew there was nothing here for us, knew that we had to escape, we knew this town rips the bones from your back, it's a death trap, it's a suicide rap. And we had to get out while we're young.But I didn’t get out while I was young. Instead, after high school and a smidge of college, I moved to Ohio and West Virginia and back to Pennsylvania, defeated. I even got a job in the same factory my father worked in. I would continue living this Springsteen nightmare for years until I finally woke up, got in a car, and headed West myself.Until that trip, the farthest west I had traveled was Illinois. It was flatter, but otherwise much the same as Pennsylvania. And so, one summer, I got a few weeks off of work, loaded up and headed for California.On this first true journey away from home, I drove along the Blue Ridge Mountains, cut across Mississippi, rolled through Louisiana and Arkansas, and into Texas and Oklahoma. I was fascinated watching the land slowly change. The birch trees turning to alder turning to magnolia; the hills to mountains to wide river plains and bottoms; the skies from barren humid white to fog to the bluest of skies.In Oklahoma City, I took Route 66 into New Mexico and Arizona. I had never seen a desert before. Not even in movies, not like this. Stopping, I saw nothing that looked like anything familiar. The earth beneath my feet was sandy and red or white. Gone were the mountain laurels swaying by a cool stream. They were replaced with gnarled and sharp creosote clinging to a dry wash. There was no breeze. But the sky! The New Mexico sky there existed a deeper blue than I had ever before imagined.The landforms themselves were alien, almost cartoonish. The rocks, the animals, the insects, everything in existence before me was utterly and conclusively different from everything in my existence up to this point. I was taken in by this contrast and it held me for days.I had to continue on to California, and as I moved through the Mojave into Los Angeles, the familiar began to slide its way back in - in a real sense, a city is a city. Up the coast to the Bay Area, things were different and the trees were bigger, but they were still trees. The Pacific Ocean was still an ocean. The rivers were rivers, just like back home.On the drive back east, I took the interstate through Kansas, only noting how boring that state must be, not realizing that the interstate system allows us to travel across the entire continent of North America and see exactly nothing. A few years later, I took another such trip. Again in awe of New Mexico, and again another long eye-roll drive home, this time through Nebraska.Then, through an odd series of events and reasons, I moved to Seattle, taking a couple of weeks to see the west again and along the way.I had visited Seattle before, and found the land relatively and broadly the same as back home. Not exactly, but apart from the jagged peaks and volcanoes on the horizon, everything was comfortably similar.The trip west — the final trip west, the trip that was the culmination of years of crying out the words to “Thunder Road” — found me off the interstate and in Nebraska. This wasn’t the land of the east, and yet, there was a hint of the familiar. But it also wasn’t the desert west. There were a few cacti and maybe some sage here and there, but this was some place set aside, a place almost forgotten.I thought back to my interstate drives through the Plains, wondering if I had missed something there, too. I had to keep moving, but that pull west was less upon me. And when I moved to Seattle, that same pull drew me back east to Kansas and Nebraska.If you were wondering how long it would take me to talk about photography, well, that time is now. Though, I’d argue that I’ve been talking about photography this whole time. Because all this time, I was shooting digital in a way that skirted and bordered upon the serious. I had some sort of small point and shoot and had gotten more interested in composing shots rather than just flicking away.Over the next few years, this turned back into film. I shot film as a kid because there was no other choice. I learned how to use an SLR (a Pentax K1000) from a very early age, but it was just any other camera to me. It was nothing special and neither was I.The first years in Seattle had me exploring the immediate area as well as taking some trips into Idaho and Utah. I fell in love with the eastern part of the state as you might already know. But that pull to Kansas and Nebraska was strong.I picked up a film camera again around this time. I shot color at first, quickly learning how to develop it myself - even then, I couldn’t afford to both pay for film and its processing. I folded in black & white within a year or so.Starting maybe eight years ago, I began to take a month off in the summer to travel. It would mean some pretty crazy sacrifices to make this happen — both financially and career-based — but I figured it was worth it.My first such trip was to the middle, to Kansas and Nebraska. I wouldn’t take a straight shot there and back, but a slow ramble, and then eventually two and a half weeks zig-zagging across Kansas. It was one of the best months of my life, and in a way, I’ve been trying to recapture that every year since.I entered the northwest corner of Nebraska on dirt roads. My memory is faulty here, but in Wyoming, I drove past a herd of cows bathing in a pond, then an abandoned school, which I photographed extensively. I recall the road deteriorating to a two track around Three Tubs Mountain and hoping my car could deal with the sandy surface and sharp turns. I’m not sure how much of that was actually real. When it comes to the road, things tend to run together.Nebraska, for me, was a grassland near the tri-corners it shared with Wyoming and South Dakota. I stopped by an abandoned Catholic Church on a battlefield of the Sioux War, along Warbonnet Creek. They placed a monument on a hill a half-mile or so from the road. With the stark and cloudless sky above me, I hiked my way with my cameras to the monument.As I crested the hill, the wind picked up, blowing grasses like waves over the ocean with no shore to crash upon. These rolling hills were devoid of trees, of even larger plants. Here, it was the familiarity of grass mixed with the desert’s cacti. But this was no desert, just as this was not home. There was a perfect blending of the two. Something ultimately unfamiliar holding ground with something so common as grass.I hefted my 4x5 out of my pack and did my best to steady the camera on its tripod in the wind. I was shooting an Intrepid at the time, and some fairly normal lenses. This was my first trip with large format, and really only my second or third day using it. My photos bear this out.A blank and cloudless sky is nearly an anathema to me now, but then, I’m not sure I noticed. But I did want to capture the ground - both its softness and its brittle ruggedness. I shot low, battling thorns and rocks hidden between the soft bunches of grass. I watched out for snakes.And I stood there, face to the wind, claiming this small hill as my own in the fading afternoon. No car passed by the road a half-mile away. No other person could see me over the rolling expanse of prairie. I understood that this was momentous; this was a sensation I would be chasing for the rest of my life.The prairie is uncanny, taking grasses and flowers and wind and some trees here and there, all familiar, but replacing the near horizons with an endless sky. Here, there were no clouds, and the land seemed humbled beneath the broad and empty blue.Over the next half dozen years, I would return to this spot six times. Each visit wears itself like a metaphor for the prairie: familiar, but always different, always changing.The next day, I traced for myself a thin line into Kansas, entering near the preposterous Arikaree Breaks — canyons eroded by a thousand spring floods — as if to reassure me that the Kansas I was about to enter was not the same one ignored by the blind interstate traveler.The only

I’ve got three things to talk to you about today. First up is about a major minor setback I had last week. It’s first because it’s a first-world problem, but since it’s my first-world problem, it’s going to be yours as well.Second, you’re going to learn something about photography. Not the thing. The word.Third, we all hate social media and now we’re playing musical chairs. The last one on Instagram please turn off the light.I haven’t been writing as much as I used to. There was a time when I could sit down and scratch out a few thousand words every day. First, it was embarrassing poetry, then regular poetry, then personal and travel blogging, and then I became a history blogger. Then, I got more interested and serious about film photography, and in a way that filled much of the void otherwise filled by writing.And while photography is wonderful, there’s some itch left unscratched that only writing can get at.When I did the previous podcast, All Through a Lens, I filled my days once again with writing and research. A 90-minute episode would take days to write. That schedule became a full-time job and once we were okay with pretending that Covid was more or less over-ish, I went back to work, and it became unsustainable.So now, still with that full-time job, I’m at it again. But this time will be different, I tell myself. This time I’ll stick to mostly opinion and personal topics. They might be more challenging to write, but there’s no research and that was the true time-suck of it all.This brings me back to film photography. With many of the photos I share on social media, I include a bit of writing. Sometimes it’s something I jot down with but a few glances at the photo. With the cemetery stuff, I do actual surface-level research and write about what I find. But lately, I’ve been rattling ideas around in my head, playing with them throughout the day, and penciling down not nearly enough notes.Not long ago, I spent the day mulling over a sentence: We embrace the imperfections of film photography as if what we’re photographing is perfect. I knew it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to say or how I wanted to say it, but it was something.As I worked at my job, I formed some ideas. Nothing concrete, nothing written down (unfortunately), but a small speck to build from. I figured that if it was going to come together as a larger piece, it would eventually just come together as a larger piece.Keep in mind, this wasn’t my whole day. I didn’t stare into the ceiling lights, mouth gaping to ponder whatever I was about to come up with. I went through my day as a normal human - I worked, I drove home, I ate, I listened to both sides of the Charles Mingus Black Saint and the Sinner Lady record, watched some TV, and then I wrote. Like normal humans do.I sat down around 7 pm to write this out. It had grown some and by this point, I was thinking of almost nothing else. I even knew the photo I was going to use for the words.Before my fingers hit the keys, I had the first paragraph memorized:We embrace the imperfections of film photography — the dust, the lint, the missed focus, and poor development — as if what we’re photographing is perfect.I went on to write seven or eight paragraphs more. I got it all down in an instant. It took thirty minutes of composition. I did some light editing. Then some more. I moved this here and that there. I corrected my tenses (I often have problems with tenses, as well as passive voice which barely makes sense to me - I have problems with getting sidetracked too), and it was final and complete.While I was writing and editing this, I was also doing some extra lint removal in the photo editing software I use. It was basic cloning tool stuff. I like to do it myself rather than let whatever scanning software I have do it.For writing, I should use a program that autosaves. Almost everything does now, and it’s pretty handy. But the program I use for writing about photos is a simple photo tagging program not at all meant for writing. It doesn’t even have spell check. Rather than write somewhere else and then copy/paste it into this tagging program, I cut out the middleman and just wrote it there.The problem is that when I saved it with the tagging program, the text was embedded within the photo file itself as a comment tag. So after I removed all the lint I could, I saved the photo again, but in the photo editing software. Doing this overwrote the entire file, including the tags and comments, completely deleting everything I wrote.And it was gone. I tried a variety of different things, but in the end, it no longer existed.I was angry and sad. Pissed off at myself, I got up and walked it off. I came back to the keyboard and there was nothing. I could recall much of the first paragraph, but nothing of anything else.I took a breath. And then another. And still nothing. Utterly disgusted with myself I went to bed. Thirty minutes later, I got up to try again. Nothing. Nothing.After writing a quick and cranky synopsis of what happened, I uploaded the photo, including the new and fairly meaningless text to share the next day. Something grumpy about being angry and sad and pissed off at myself.The next morning on the drive to work, parts of it began to come back to me. There were little phrases like “light so perfect, angles so square” and “shadows revealing even less than we see.” I mean, it’s not Shakespeare, but things were starting to re-form as I drove.I feared that it would all come back on I-5 north and I would have no way of getting it down.When I got to work, without even taking off my coat, I took out my notebook and a pencil and wrote everything I could. I wrote in scratches and scribbles, crossing out entire sentences and drawing arrows to place this here or that there. So many arrows.Fifteen minutes later, there it was. More or less complete, but also a complete mess spread over two pages of notebook.There were some edits and a bit of rewriting, but it was finished. Maybe it’s a little different from what I wrote the previous night, but still. Finished.What didn’t escape me, even the night before, was just how this entire process from creation through destruction to creation again was a perfect exemplar for the piece I had written.So now, here it is:We Embrace the Imperfections of Film PhotographyWe embrace the imperfections of film photography — the dust, the lint, the shifting colors, and poor development — as if what we're photographing is itself perfect by comparison.As if our lives all around us aren’t faltering and broken, we compose to pleasing forms and sacred ratios, every shot a reach for perfection, the angles so perfect, the lines so square.We hold close the warmth of analog with half-truths and the imagination that life is surface noise and that we see in grain.These blemishes, so perfectly symbolic, are cherished as aesthetic, as decoration; the light leaks in only so much, the shadows reveal less than we see.We decry the performative, what we judge dishonest while practicing faces and poses. We perform for ourselves like actors on stage, creating scenes and moments.And when everything is made just so, when our movements are placed just right, when the light and shadow and time all play their roles, we play our own. We open the shutter and we imagine this is honesty, that this is somehow not performative.We enjoy the waiting, the holding still and counting, where angles, composition, and golden light entwine in this feigned perfection chased and ruthlessly hunted.It ends in a moment so fleeting and immediate that its preservation must be tangible to us. The fate of all this motion and struggle must necessarily be captured and framed to stillness; matted and muted, displayed on a wall like some trophy perfected.We capture on film what we love, the friends, those nearest, the refuge we have made for ourselves. But we have held the crumbling photos of our grandparents, the shattered ambrotypes in stained boxes, shards and splinters where the finest resolution once clung fast and forever.Our negatives and photos, we know, are not lasting. Our prints, even archival, fade with time, even in darkness where they live unseen anyway.Our lives end, our cameras break; the memories die unglorious and forgotten without ceremony, like ourselves, and not even ghosts remain.We still herald these so small imperfections, the missed focus, the decay, and that time we rolled the film backward. These nearly random cuts and scars are our inoculation against our larger creation: our own lives and the world we built.As if the lint and specks, the dust and endless cat hair play their parts, standing in for all manner of life’s terrors and dismays, for wars and broken treaties, for disease and death. But our creation, flawed and performed, brittle and impermanent, in the end, is our own.We embrace the imperfections of film photography because we cannot embrace the imperfections of life without this filter, this art form standing between ourselves and our world destroying itself. We cannot look upon, cannot live through all this destruction without our own creation to behold.And there it is. To be honest, I don’t have a clue what to do with it. But it’s there. I got to thinking about the arguments between film and digital and just how stupid and shallow they are. And then I just wrote to see where it would take me.There’s quite a bit of writing left in me, so maybe it’s best that we just revisit this another time.Photo Words: Photography!If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know that I have a fascination with words and their origins. So it’s no huge surprise that I’d take this opportunity to talk about words. Photography is filled with strange words like shutter, aperture, and composition - all words I’ll eventually get to. But for now, I’d like to begin at the beginning - Photography.Photography is a “new” word invented around the time photography itself was invented. Strangely enough, there’s some controversy a

Hi there. I’m Eric. I’m a photographer. If you don’t know much about me, I suppose here is as good a place as any to get to know me.I live in Seattle, but almost never photograph anything here. My preference is the eastern part of the state, and I’m out there in the spring and autumn as much as I can be - mostly weekends. I also have messed up my life enough to get a month off every year for more extended travel, a four-week photography trip that is equal parts exhausting and productive. It is not a vacation in the sense that there is nothing relaxing about it. More on this later.My work is generally black & white and shot on film. I prefer medium and large formats. None of my cameras are lightweight, and this has somehow not stopped me from hiking with them. This practice is inadvisable and not sustainable. Each year I tell myself I’ll figure out a better way and never do.Often, I take winters off from photographing. This allows me to enjoy a kind of hibernation and to sort out what I’m doing in the coming shooting season, which generally starts in March-ish.Each winter, I lay out my coming trips and my plans for the next few months. And I think I’ll share a bit of that here. I don’t know if it’s interesting, but we’ll see. Last Summer Was BadI’ve had an amazing string of luck on my summer trips. No accidents, no injuries, nothing stolen, I wasn’t shot at, everything was basically fine. Last summer this streak ended. Though not dramatically. Sort of.I left Seattle with the idea of getting to my parents’ house in Pennsylvania in three days. I’ve done 1000+ mile days before and figured that doing three in a row would be a great idea.This was a mistake. The first day was indeed fine. The second was okay. I was tired, but knew I’d be “home” tomorrow. On the morning of the third day, somewhere in Indiana, I became intensely nauseated.I was on the Indiana Turnpike and pulled over at a rest area to sort it out. By “intense,” I mean that I was green and felt like I was going to barf. I couldn’t move without waves of nausea spinning me around. I tried to walk it off, I tried to sleep, I tried to ignore it. I knew that the longer I spent there, the longer it would take to get off the road.I am a stubborn person. Getting a hotel room is almost out of the question. I figured that if I was going to be nauseated, I might as well be nauseated while driving. After a few hours at the rest area and feeling slightly better, I started to drive. Most turnpikes have emergency pull-outs every mile or so. I used almost every one of these until the next rest area, where I again stopped. It just wasn’t going away.I crossed into Ohio, and eventually, the nausea calmed some. My stomach was empty, but I was still too nauseated to eat. By Pennsylvania, I was exhausted. Every ounce of strength and effort had been spent on the road. When I rolled into my old hometown, I had nothing at all left in me. The next morning, the nausea was gone, but it had taken my will with it. The day after that, I got a bit better. I spent two weeks at my parents’ house in varying degrees of nausea, stress, and exhaustion. My first thought was that I somehow made myself carsick. This was all but confirmed by riding along with my father on a few short drives. It wasn’t consistent, but it seemed like I was getting carsick. The time with my parents was good. I was able to get out and photograph some cemeteries as well as the town of Shamokin, which became the subject of my latest book Anthracite. Last Summer Got WorseI left my parents’ house and gave myself two and a half weeks to return to Seattle. Along the way, I wanted to explore a bit of Virginia and North Carolina, as well as stop in Missouri, Kansas, and a few other places. Normally, I have a route and see places along that route, almost never staying more than a night in any single location. This time, however, I decided to find a couple of towns and explore the surrounding area in loops that would bring me back to the same campsite each night.I don’t think I mentioned this - I camp. It’s rare that I stay in a hotel room. Out of the thirty days on the road, usually around 28 nights of them are spent inside a tent. I love it and it’s cheap or free. If I didn’t travel this way, I couldn’t afford to travel at all. Because I stayed too long at my parents’ house, I had to cut down some of these loops. But that would come soon enough. First, I wanted to explore some railroad towns in Virginia and North Carolina.I will have much more to say about these towns and this experience in the future (possibly a zine will come of it). Three things happened almost simultaneously. First, the nausea came back. Second, the temperatures went from the low to mid-80s to triple digits. Third, my air conditioning went out.The nausea seemed to be related to the road, especially the interstate. When I travel, I almost never use the interstates. I’m all for backroads and a lot of stopping. But this trip required them, and every time I was on one, I got gripped with intense nausea. And when I knew I would have to be on one, I’d spiral into anxiety and would receive the nausea in that way. It got to the point where I didn’t know which came first and which was the symptom. If I could have just gotten on Interstate 80 and sped back to Seattle in a handful of days, I would have. But I had learned my lesson on the trip east. So going slow was necessary. And that was the plan all along anyway. I did my best to keep to my schedule. Now, in most years, the schedule needs to be flexible. It needs to change with everything that happens around me. This year the schedule had to be forgotten. This was convenient, since I wrote out my schedule on a notepad and forgot it at home. My maps still showed the roads and routes I wanted to take, but not where I hoped to be each night. And not the number of days I anticipated the trip home to take.I won’t take you day-by-day through my trip. I honestly don’t remember much of it anyway. The heat was oppressive and the nausea was various shades of debilitating. Two nights were spent in the Land Between the Lakes, an 170,000 acre chunk of public land on the Kentucky/Tennessee border. I fell in love with the place, exploring dirt roads and old cemeteries, old homesteads and churches. I can’t recommend it enough. The plans were to stay in Coffeeyville, Kansas for the next three nights, exploring the loops I mapped out the previous winter. But I also needed to get my air conditioning fixed. I had it flushed and checked for leaks a couple of times so far on the trip, but nobody could sort it out.Pulling into nearby Independence, Kansas, I stopped at a shop recommended by another shop, and they took the whole thing apart, found the leak and tried to fix it. For three days in a row. Most of those days, I sat outside the shop waiting. I’d explore some in the evenings and even in the mornings before they opened. I camped at a nearby lake.On the fourth day, they said they probably fixed it unless pieces of the pump found their way into the evaporator. If that was the case, there’s nothing anyone could do apart from replacing the entire air conditioning system, which they couldn’t do without the parts which would take a week to get there.A lot of money later, I left the next morning and it promptly stopped working again. The nausea also returned, requiring me to stop every few miles to … actually, I’m not sure what. Rest? At that point, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I figured it was motion sickness and that stopping would help. Which it did, in a way. The nausea would come in waves and then leave. Sometimes it would come back. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Sometimes it seemed to react to food or lack of food. Sometimes it seemed fully independent of anything I was doing.I eventually wound up in Grand Junction, Colorado. Camping again, I ate a little that evening and was utterly plagued by nausea and heat. The next morning, with temperatures somehow still in the 90s, with my AC out, and with my inability to eat anything, I had quite the nervous breakdown while driving through town. Realizing that I might not actually be able to drive myself home, I talked myself into eating. I understood that even though I was nauseated, I was also very undernourished. I had been eating almost nothing since North Carolina. I forced myself to down a plate of tofu and broccoli at a Chinese restaurant, knowing it would likely bring on the nausea. I also had to hit the interstate again, which would apparently also do the same.I-70 into Utah was a mess. The afternoon sun was melting me; my phone, which I used for navigation, wouldn’t charge because it was too hot in the car. My nausea required frequent stops, and everything I wanted to photograph was left unshot.I can’t convey how much I did not shoot compared the the previous years. I had such big plans! I had actually convinced myself to travel in a slightly different way (the loops thing), and I think it might have worked if not for the various maladies befalling the entire trip. It had slowly become a war of attrition which I was quickly losing.The broccoli and tofu did enough of the trick to get me into Utah and Idaho. I don’t remember much of the run at this point. I had plans for Idaho, but I always have plans for Idaho. These plans are almost always pushed aside to get home. Through clouds of nausea, I finished the trip, leaving the interstate even through Oregon to spare myself any further problems. It didn’t work as well as I hoped, but I got home.Autumn, Okay?For the rest of the summer, I sat myself at home except for one trip to eastern Washington. It was supposed to be a two-night ramble, but turned into a short daytrip. Nausea and lack of food again.Photographically, I spent the autumn developing film. I had taken a hundred or so 4x5 photos in various small cemeteries across the country. There were literally hundreds of cemeteries I had hoped to visit that I could not, but I