A collection of images from client shoots, to personal favorites, great adventures, quiet solo outings, and fond memories of time spent with friends in the outdoors.
Portraiture, on location, studio and active lifestyle.
This selection of images were taken while leading photography workshops for Trail Runner Magazine over the last 5 years.
Photo instructing, art direction, on-location sports, running, outdoors
I hadn’t taken a single photograph in several years.
I spent nearly half my life trying to make the art form I loved be my profession. It wasn’t that I lacked talent, training or effort. It was simply the fact that I was more of an artist than a businessman. So at the age of 30 I transitioned to a career as a graphic designer and art director. As I focused on this new path my photography took a back seat and I became very critical of my own photography. As I focused on my new path my edge for the capturing photographs faded and eventually I stopped picking up the camera.
Six years ago I moved to Carbondale and started taking pictures again. It was more of a reaction than a decision. I was simply in awe of the landscape around me. I started with just my iPhone camera because it was with me. But also subliminally, this was my way to make sure that I would not take any of this picture taking too serious or critical.
After documenting my jaunts and adventures in this new backyard for a season I took a look through the photos I had made and I noticed something about those images. I realized that by choosing to capture these images with my iPhone I had allowed myself to be free of my own biases and in the process learned to “see” in a new way the world around me. Portraying what I saw in a way that is better connected to how I felt while capturing the image. A way of making images that really showed expression and my emotional response to the beauty around me.
The Declination Project is a 25 year photography retrospective. This body of work is based around the concept of searching for a sense of place.
If you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are.
The deep ecologists warn us not to be anthropocentric, but I know no way to look at the world, settled or wild, except through my own human eyes. I know that it wasn’t created especially for my use, and I share the guilt for what the members of my species, especially the migratory ones, have done to it. But I am the only instrument that I have access to by which I can enjoy the world and try to understand it. So I must believe that, at least to human perception, a place is not a place until people have been born in it, have grown up in it, lived in it, known it, died in it – have both experienced and shaped it, as individuals, families, neighborhoods, and communities, over more than one generation. Some are born in their place, some find it, some realize after long searching that the place they left is the one they have been searching for. But whatever their relation to it, it is made a place only by slow accrual, like a coral reef.
Wendell Berry is not talking about the kind of location that can be determined by looking at a map or a street sign. He is talking about the kind of knowing that involves the senses, the memory, the history of a family or a tribe. He is talking about the knowledge of place that comes from working in it in all weathers, making a living from it, suffering from its catastrophes, loving its mornings or evenings or hot noons, valuing it for the profound investment of labor and feeling that you, your parents and grandparents, your all-but-unknown ancestors have put into it. He is talking about the knowing that poets specialize in.
—excerpt from Wallace Stegner, The Sense of Place. 1992.