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.
Much of the world was treated recently to a once-in-a-generation solar storm that pushed the northern lights closer to the equator than any time in the past 21 years. It wasn’t the strongest storm ever, but it may have been one of the most observed.
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.
One of the reasons I treasure my time in nature so much is that it allows me to enter a completely different world — a world of striking scenery and fascinating animals. But my favorite days are ones when I can disappear into this world without having to try to disappear.
There are a number of things photographers can do to try to get closer to the animals they photograph. They can take pictures from their cars. They can use hides. They can wrap themselves and their giant lenses with camouflage.
My favorite outings, however, are when animals know I’m there and still don’t care.
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.
As another year draws to a close, it’s time for an annual tradition: a review of my work from the past 12 months.
Today is the December solstice and how you view it is a matter of perspective.
I really needed just one picture of a green sea turtle for an upcoming project, but pictures are often better when I get the chance to know my subject on a deeper level. And I’m very thankful for the hours I got to spend with the turtles off Rarotonga in the Cook Islands.
October is a month for all things spooky, so in some ways it’s only fitting that earlier this month I got to witness an annular solar eclipse, a celestial event that for a fair amount of it the sun resembles a sickle.
We all have favorite things. A favorite color. Perhaps a favorite flower. Or maybe a favorite bird.
The flip side of that is that we also have things we hate. Or at least strongly dislike. One of the things I have been working through is whether the things that have made it on my dislike list really deserve to be there.
This is a fogbow, informally known as a white rainbow. I got to spend about an hour working with it last week, which was phenomenal. When I’ve worked with fogbows before, I’ve had to work much faster.
When I’m working in the field, even when I have a very good idea of how exactly I want my picture to turn out, I may go through a dozen or so takes to ensure the image I captured expresses exactly what I’m after. If I’ve become captivated by something unexpected, I may go through a hundred or more.
The image that I’m calling Ruby Portal, shown above, was the product of the latter approach. I was on the Pacific coast in the Olympic Wilderness of Washington state where wildfire haze was giving the setting sun a striking color. I wasn’t sure how everything would turn out.
For a while, it appeared the sun might quickly sink behind a layer of clouds, so as I took each photo, I thought there was a chance it might be my last of the day. The final image is the product of about an hour of exploration and revision. I thought it might be of interest to share that process with you.
When I wrote last month about learning to appreciate nature in my own backyard, I expected it to be timely only in the context of such an image making it into an art exhibit. But over the past month, there have been new debates over how much access the public should have to popular wilderness areas. As access becomes more restricted, we may all have to start appreciating backyards more.
