If you ever worry that your ego is getting too big, let a teenager describe your work.
My 17-year-old stepdaughter told a friend that one of my pictures was in an exhibit. When he asked what that picture was of, she replied, “A sunset or something.”
As with any barb launched by an adolescent, there was a kernel of truth. The picture wasn’t of a sunset, but it was taken about an hour before sunrise.
One of my favorite recent pictures began with a household chore. The recycling bin in the kitchen was nearly to the point where I couldn’t stuff any more in. I put on my slippers and headed outside to empty it into the big bin. On my way back in, the scene in the front yard bought me to a full stop.
If you’re in the mood to explore, you might say that you’re "going to look around." And often we do that literally, scanning our environment from side to side, seldom deviating from eye level. But there’s so much more to see. Sometimes the world truly is at your feet.
When you’re walking dogs in a suburban neighborhood, you might not expect there’s much in the way of nature to appreciate. And that may be true if your view is limited to things that are five to six feet above the ground.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on a flight where the pilot encouraged us to look out the window. When it happens, it’s a rare event. It usually requires passing over something with the magnitude of the Grand Canyon. I never once heard the captain suggest looking out at the rugged landscape of Greenland or a spectacular view of the northern lights, even though it’s not like any of us passengers have anything better to do.
The basalt columns on Reynisfjara beach in southern Iceland have stood there for at least a few thousand years. A black sand beach has put the towering hexagons within easy reach for as long as anyone can remember. But in a flash, or rather a winter storm, the columns, a product of an ancient volcanic eruption, are now out at sea, the beach cleared away.
Some of our most spectacular national parks are the result of exploration. Once they’ve become a dot on a map, however, we stop looking further even though there’s so much more we could discover.
The teenage philosopher Ferris Bueller once said: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” In the nearly 40 years that have passed since Ferris took a day off to appreciate the fleeting innocence of high school, life has only moved faster. And we look around less.
The great irony is that we’re supposed to have more free time than ever. Each technological advance promises to make our lives easier and give us the freedom to enjoy life. But we don’t gain freedom. We’re expected to be even more productive.
You will sometimes hear photographers talk about getting “the shot” — they captured what they wanted to get. If you were to compare photography to the way we commonly think about education, this picture is the equivalent of the diploma. It’s the reward. The achievement is complete. We’re done here.
This concept has some precedence in art history. Henri Cartier-Bresson was a French photographer of candid scenes and he was known for capturing “the decisive moment.” The elements in his photographs were so perfectly arranged that a picture taken even a split second earlier or later would appear obviously inferior.
If, right this moment, I could be anywhere in the world, I might choose to be in a national park in an exotic country. But I’m at home, in front of my computer. And I just got back from taking a walk in my neighborhood.
My route is largely the same every time I do it, and I try to walk it at least every other day. Someone I regularly see on these walks asked me once why I don’t choose a different path. “I would be so bored,” she said.
My goal with any time in nature — as it is with my photography — is to get closer to the world around me. To make connections. To see something I never noticed before.
Here in the northern hemisphere, we’re now in the midst of our longest nights of the year. While some bemoan perpetual darkness — where I am nearly two-thirds of the day is night — I’m finding myself staying out late more often.
Photography is all about light. Its very name comes from Greek words that mean “painting with light.”
Often when we think of photography, we speak of ‘light’ in literal terms. That’s partly because without light, any photograph would be but a solid block of black. But quantity of light is just one component.
As we proceed through life, we’re often focused straight ahead — or at least that’s what we’re told that we’re supposed to do. “Where do you plan to be in five years?” “Watch where you’re going!” “Stop focusing on the past; it’s behind you.” Those are all things we’ve likely heard at some point in our lives.
This relentless drive forward may be the key to succeed in business, but I think to better connect with the world around you, it’s good to look around. Through my Five Minutes in Nature project I’ve worked to notice things that are easy to miss. To do that, I must break myself of superficial encounters that never get beyond first impressions.
Five Minutes in Nature, my new exhibit and book, shares some of my all-time favorite experiences outdoors over the two decades I’ve been a nature photographer. Viewers may be astonished to see how many of them took place so close to my home.
The exhibit at the Roger Tory Peterson Institute in Jamestown, New York, features 33 large-scale photographs representing those experiences. Two of those were taken in my yard. Four more are from small parks only a few miles from my house.
When a bright rainbow can stretch all the way across the horizon, it might be hard to think of it as your own. Dozens, if not hundreds, of other people must be seeing it, too, right?
But even if that rainbow spans one of the world’s largest cities, any rainbow you see is decidedly your own. Everybody gets their own. Any rainbow you see forms on a personal arc drawn from the shadow of your head. Even if we’re standing side-by-side, we’re technically seeing different rainbows.
This idea that even a vast rainbow can be something personal is a core element of my Five Minutes in Nature project, which is on view until July 21 at the Roger Tory Peterson Institute in Jamestown, New York.
I’m fortunate to live in a area with so many distinctive landscape features. I could recognize Mount Rainier, certain waterfalls, or parts of the Pacific Northwest coast from rough sketches.
While their defining characteristics are burned into my memory, they were not always that way. Just as my hair has changed color over the decades, so, too, have their appearances. One of the ways I find tranquility in nature is to slow down and watch that change at work.
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I do have something of a New Year tradition. One of my first pictures of the year is typically from the waterfront a half dozen miles from my home.
Even when we are on the scenic route, I suspect that most of the time we still remain fixated on our destination. The view outside the window is prettier, but it’s still just time filler. If it were food, it’s definitely not the main course. And I don’t often think we even treat it as an appetizer.
Better appreciating the journey is something that I have been working on for years. And I remain a work in progress.
As soon as the eggs are laid, most female ducks are on their own. They are left to raise the young by themselves. And for good reason: the male ducks, called drakes, command attention.
We often talk about what we can see, but sometimes it’s enjoyable seeing what you can hear. With songbirds returning for spring in the northern hemisphere, spend five minutes listening to them sing.
(This is part of the 5 Minutes in Nature project, a series of activities that are designed to help you recharge by spending five minutes concentrating on nature. Learn more about the project here, and see past activities here.)
When I launched the 5 Minutes in Nature project, I purposely avoided talking about specific plants or animals. This project is about finding your own connections to the natural world. I also didn’t want to suggest something that you would never see in your own area.
But today, I’m going to introduce you to the chickadee. It’s a fascinating bird. And you can find it almost everywhere. You can likely even find it now before other birds arrive for the spring.
