This, too, shall pass

When curators talk about the artistic vision behind a photograph, they sometimes start by explaining how the picture represents a singular moment of time and space. The artist found something special right there and then and crafted the image to capture and share that feeling.

By extension, this means that that particular moment was over by the time the film was developed or the file saved to the camera’s memory card. For the picture to represent a truly unique slice of time, everything must ultimately be ephemeral.

This idea was the guiding principle behind my photography for many years. I’m not a photographer who enjoys trying to take the same picture someone else did. I want my own experiences, and my pictures are like diary entries. Rather than let someone else guide, I want my own adventure. Finding something worthy in a chance encounter is the reward.

It’s still at the heart of what I do, though over the years I’ve grown more comfortable adding my own emotions to my work. I’m no longer recording a particular place at a specific time; I’m also expressing how I felt at that moment.

But lately, there’s been a fair amount on my mind that has caused me to think back about the original core principle. One of the latest triggers is that several of the trees on the lot next door were cut down.

The trees were not old growth, but they were relatively old as suburban trees go. They were at least 50 feet tall. They also had not been allowed to grow completely naturally. They’ve never had lower-level branches the entire time I’ve known them. I assume those branches were removed decades ago to reduce the risk trees would fall on the house that shares their lot.

But they were a source of photographic inspiration that I could easily visit. I’ve depicted them in strong winds when their normally vertical lines would curve. I’ve photographed them during winter storms when their wide trunks would form a dark backdrop for the snowflakes. I’ve documented them in red wildfire haze. I’ve captured them during a late summer sunrise when the golden light seemed to selectively reach only certain trees.

Now they’re gone. Last week, in the blink of an afternoon, several were removed piece by piece.

It’s human nature to be terrible with the concept of impermanence. Pick virtually any love song. We take the word “forever” and habitually round it up to “eternity.” There’s a country song, Background Music by Maren Morris, that masterfully acknowledges this:

We have time
But we’re only human
We call it “forever”
Though we know that there’s
An end to it

It’s also human nature to fixate on how terrible change can be. My photography series with those trees has come to an abrupt end. The time I spent with them is all the time I will ever get to spend with them. But, ultimately, there’s also nothing that I can do about that. There is precious little in life that is under our control.

Whether we’re talking about the trees across the street or anything else that provides meaning in our lives, memories live on. And the pictures, like all my art works, are souvenirs.

Kevin’s new book, Five Minutes in Nature, collects images and stories about his experiences in the wilderness, curated to help you have deeper encounters of your own. Preview and order it here. Prints of his images are available through LivingWilderness.com. Learn about new work by joining his mailing list.)