This afternoon I was settling down to paint, thinking I’d do another landscape. But on last week’s New York Times spread out under my paints, there was a photo of the actor Javier Bardem that kept drawing my attention. Last night at a dinner party I’d seen a fascinating little self-portrait by an artist who became one of the first animators for Disney. Inspired, I decided to do a portrait, using Javier’s image as a starting point.
Here is a painting I did this weekend, based on landscape I saw hiking in the mountains of southern Iceland.
I know, I know.. I promised England and Iceland. But in keeping with my policy of ‘last in, first out’ (LIFO in accounting parlance), I want to share some of my favorite images from a trip I took last week to the North Shore of Lake Superior, up near Cascade State Park. I didn’t have much time for shooting, but the warm temperatures at dawn drew me out for some early morning wonderment.
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A week and a half ago I got back from a trip to England and Iceland. Over the next several posts I’ll be sharing some images from the trip.
Most likely I’ll be working backward chronologically (there’s been research showing that that’s the way memories are consolidated: when you sleep your memories come back to you from the previous day starting with the most recent one first), so that means I’ll be starting with Iceland.
As you might imagine, there are many amazing things to shoot in Iceland – in fact it’s a photographers paradise! Being so sparsely populated, and having such unique landforms, Iceland’s landscape is enthralling. Yet the first image I’d like to post shows another side of Iceland.
During the five days I was there, waves of misty rain continued to pass through, sometimes broken by several hours of sunshine. When it’s cloudy and the rain is falling, the buildings and people take center stage. I took this shot outside the Reykjavik City Library/Museum of Photography. Noticing this pair on the sidewalk ahead of me I pulled my camera out in the rain and grabbed a few shots before it got too wet. Initially I was attracted to the little girl’s awesome Hello Kitty raincoat, but beyond that I felt this scene helps suggest the Icelanders strong sense of family, culture, style and design.
Having lodged near the main street of art and craft galleries, I was so struck by the unique design aesthetic – that somehow combines the sober and traditional colors and materials (think Icelandic sweaters) with a very modern, daring style (think Björk). You can also hear this in the music of bands like Sigur Rós. At the National Museum of Iceland, I learned that Iceland was quite an undeveloped country, largely missed by the Industrial Revolution, until the early 20th century when they jumped into the modern world with both feet. Perhaps that helps explain the contrast.
The subject of a child and its parent is also a reminder for me that in Iceland, the child’s last name is formed from the parent’s first name (usually the father’s but sometimes the mother’s), plus an indication of whether they are a daughter or a son. For example, if the mom’s name were Bryndís then her daughter might have the last name Bryndísardóttir. It’s actually illegal to take the last name of one’s spouse. To me as an American, there’s something very powerful and intriguing about a culture that links each person to their parent in this way.
One other thing I didn’t notice about this shot until I got home, is that there is a rather uncanny mirror image. Can you spot it??
I’ve been waiting all summer for a chance to go up to the North Shore of Lake Superior. It’s an area I love for its forests, shoreline, and the lake itself – which always brings me a peculiar sense of my own existence, perhaps best described as experiencing ‘heaven on earth.’
The other week I finally made it there, ostensibly to scout trails in preparation for a Nordic Walking Weekend Getaway I’m hosting in October. Not much time to take photographs, but I’d brought my camera anyway, thinking I’d continue taking various shots of the wide expanse of water, picking up where I left off last year. At the same time I was also wondering how, despite the glory of the lake, I might keep my images and experience fresh.
Fortunately, the lake was in an entirely different mood that weekend. Ensconced in fog, all I was able to see of her for three days was just a trace of waves next to the shore. It was as if she were lifting her dress to show just a little of her petticoat, creating intimacy and just a suggestion of the body I already knew underneath. All of the negative space created by the water disappearing into fog produced an understated, ambiguous effect – similar to that found in Japanese art, I later realized. It also served to draw one’s focus acutely to the shoreline.
In my last post I talked about recently feeling emotionally unable to meet scenes of overt beauty and grandeur with my camera. This foggy weekend in its comforting quiet and soft light was what actually helped bring back my sense of joy and excitement. How interesting, and significant, it was for me that this should happen on the North Shore, where my spirit as a photographer has always been most nurtured.
Over the last couple summers I’ve been quite a zealous landscape photographer – eagerly rising early and staying out late to explore and capture all the beauty I could find. This summer has been different. The time I’ve had available to spend outdoors more often than not I’ve been driven to use for exercise – walking, Nordic walking, running, or biking. I’ve taken trips into some striking countryside and not brought my camera along. The skies have been dramatic, with so many storms passing through, and I’ve felt like I “should” try to capture all the drama that’s been happening there, but I haven’t. I’ve done a few paintings to try to capture the effects, but mostly the images make an imprint in my mind’s eye, then slowly fade away. I ask myself, is being a photographer more about seeing potentially great photographs, or actually taking them?
I have to be honest and say that in my last post, even though I used the word beautiful, I’m aware I’ve been in a state recently in which I can recognize things I know to be beautiful, but that the feelings that usually come with witnessing beauty have been absent for me. The emotions haven’t been there. I’ve found that when I’ve tried to capture a scene I know to be “beautiful” – the wild and majestic sky, the play of sunlight across water, etc., I’ve not been really up to it. Instead, I’ve found that when almost all the light is gone and I’ve turned my camera toward what’s in front of me, with no expectations of the subject or myself, I’ve found some satisfaction. Prairie plants, lake plants, things that are just there. I like that as subjects they hold little pretense. And I think because of that, that is where I found a little magic happening this summer.
When there’s good sky, you need to have places to run to and shoot from. For me, one of those places is some county open space accessed via an off leash dog park near my house.
Here’s a shot I took last June, during one of those dramatic evenings.
Almost exactly a year later I returned, eager to capture what was developing above me. I scuttled down my familiar dirt path toward the same vantage point, and found a chest-high fence had been erected to keep me (and the dogs) from exiting the woods. 
I followed the newly wood-chipped path toward another favorite spot. And the fence went there too. In fact, the fence had closed off access to practically all the natural views of the lake, islands and wetlands that I’ve enjoyed for so many years.
It was so disappointing. Meanwhile, I could see little glints of the setting sun through the trees, and little glowing slivers of the lake. Capturing landscape from within the park was impossible. Some dogs ran up to greet me, bringing their more positive perspective. To honor their enthusiasm, I feebly tried shooting a little bit longer, then headed to my car. As I walked I could see the sun casting some striking crimson against the clouds, so I headed to the boat launch – the only place from which I could view the lake. I took a bunch of shots, but my take-away from the evening was not of the sunset but of the fence.
The lesson I’ve been telling myself from this experience was that nothing stays the same. There is no method or formula. You can’t take anything for granted. Sadness and loss and fences are part of life..
When I went to pull out the picture of the fence for this post, I saw my shots of the sunset from the boat launch, and was reminded of what a beautiful sight I’d actually seen.
More work with the Sierra Club today, photographing our local Hands Across the Sands event – one of many across the country – calling for an end to offshore drilling and federal action to support clean energy.
Concerned citizens came out for the rally along Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis, signed petitions and joined hands in a line that stretched about half a mile. We also got coverage from KSTP (Channel 5), WCCO (Channel 4) and community radio station KFAI.
I wanted to document this event in part, to be able to look back on it one, five, ten years from now, and think about how much has changed.
The area of the oil spill (visible on the water) superimposed on the state of Minnesota
Mountainsides are newly green, orchids are fragrant,
In the mountain cleft… a house sits like a walkway;
After reciting some Taoist texts, nothing to do;
Holding a wine cup, I spend the day admiring the shimmering lake.
- Kung Hsien (1619? – 1689) Poet and painter in the Taoist tradition, who, following political upheaval at the end of Ming dynasty when all his family were killed, fled to the mountains where he eked out a living by selling his work. This poem is one of several poem paintings done a year before his death.
Today I found myself driving by the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. Having an hour to spare, I decided to drop in and take advantage of a quiet day at the museum.
Having no agenda, I found myself drawn to a room of large Chinese landscape painting hanging scrolls in the Taoist tradition. I have always been attracted to this form of art, without knowing much about it.
I love the Tao Te Ching, and it continues to inform on my outlook on life. Today I learned that Philosophical Taoism, based on these writings, was “fundamental to the early development of landscape painting and nature poetry in China.” This type of painting was practiced by the literati – also referred to as scholars – to describe an ideal way of living in which the individual finds meaning and peace in nature. Typically these paintings show a small figure engaged in contemplation, set within a tableau of mountains, water and clouds. The emphasis of literati art was as a practice of reflection, expressing aesthetics, values and feelings, rather than as a feat of technical skill and/or commercial success, though some were that as well. It was at its heart a personal, amateur endeavor, rather than one oriented toward public approval. Here is an example of one of the paintings I saw today.
As someone who’s spent many years as a student and then as a civil servant (the typical literati career), I realized for the first time how my own personal story and orientation as an artist mirrors in its own small way the lives of these literati. It was humbling and affirming to think perhaps I’m on a path that generations have traveled before me.
It also occurred to me that most often it’s within the realm of landscape and nature photography that I find qualities akin to Taoist art – photographs that speak of nature as a source of beauty, peace and wisdom that cannot be named. Practiced by photographers of all skill levels, the literati impulse is alive and well.
Since I feel this way about many of my own landscape photography experiences, I decided to see which images of mine might directly connect with the Taoist landscape genre. I worked up this one this evening – consciously choosing a shot that incorporated traditional elements.
Last week was the fishing opener here in Minnesota – the start of a sacred season.
I’ve never been a fisherwoman, but I do feel a certain kinship with others who come to be by the water before dawn and at dusk. To me these are times of quiet and communion, when I feel especially at one with the world.
Here are a couple photos I took last summer – one at dawn and one at sunset – of people fishing on Bald Eagle Lake.
