Think long and hard before changing your workflow

A few weeks back, I bought £1,000 worth of Fuji Velvia RVP 50 film. My reasons for the purchase were not only due to the price increase that has just been announced for all of Fuji's films, but more importantly, to know that my workflow is not interrupted over the next few years.

Before I get on to the main topic of this post, I'd like to let you in on a little secret: I'm not a prolific shooter. It has taken me about three years to get through 200 rolls of film.

Anyway, back to the main point of this post: Workflow.

Workflow is important.

My own workflow has been developed over a 20 year period, and I'm fully aware that buying anything new, changing software, doing something different to my workflow, can and will influence how my final images look. I have something good going on with my current workflow, that I'm unwilling to change it, and that of course means, not changing film stock.

And this is the core of this posting today: I think we should take time to reflect and consider any new acquisitions or changes that we take on board with our existing workflow. This I feel, should start with the kind of film / sensor / lenses - right through to the screen calibrator, film scanner / editing software that we choose. Small changes can have massive impact to how the final results can turn out. Change too many things in one go, and it can lead to creative frustration (as well as long learning curves ), when all that really matters is being free to create new work. After all, this is what we are here for. So the most fundamental thing for us, is to have a workflow that enables the creation of new work, rather than inhibiting it. I can't think of a more effective way of stifling my creativity than introducing something new into the equation with little thought or knowledge as to how it may change things for me.

So I would argue; if you are getting results that you are very happy with, and you have confidence that it's as good as it can get for you, then don't be swayed to introduce something new without much consideration as to what it might do to the look and feel of your existing style. I'm not advocating that you should stand still and never change, but instead, consider the impact of any alteration to your workflow, during the introduction, and also for some time to come.

I'm very happy with my workflow. It has become transparent (invisible) to me now. I seldom have to think about anything to do with the tools I use, because I know them so well. I may not have much new to learn from using the same tools, but I still have a lot of growing to do. There's a subtle but very big difference in that. If you know your tools well, you can continue to grow and evolve with your own style of work, because you're working in an environment that you feel comfortable and safe in.

I have two particular examples in mind that I would like to tell you about. Firstly, I found that my film scanner software is no longer supported and has problems running on my computer. After some battles, I decided I needed to change software. Well, it was perhaps a good year or more before I felt I was getting scans that matched what I had come to expect from my old software. I had to go through a long learning curve to get back to where I was a few years before. Some things of course are inevitable. Software becomes end of life, operating systems move on and drivers for hardware no longer work. I despise the term 'upgrade', as it often means 'headache' when all you really want to do, is get on and work with the tools you know so well, because they don't inhibit what you do. They are simply an interface between you and your vision. I was worried for a long while as to whether I'd reach the look and feel I was used to, from using the new software. I'm lucky that it was really just down to learning the nuances of the software, but some things aren't as simple as that. They can radically change your style and there's no going back.

About 2 years ago I bought a Hasselblad 500CM camera from a dear friend. I knew at the time that:

a) It would take at least a year or so to get used to it. This included being familiar with the actual mechanics, but also, getting used to composing in square. b) By using a new system, my style may change, for the better or for the worse. I really like shooting 6x7 or 4x5, so I wasn't sure if 6x6 was a way forward for me, or a dead end. I was also worried that I might not be able to go back to rectangles and if that happened - my older style would have vanished.

I had an awareness that by reaching out and trying something new, something that I may cherish about my current style may be lost in the process. Just having that awareness is important.

I'm happy to report that after a few years of using the Hasselblad, I now see it as an extension to what I do. I've found I can move between the Mamiya 7's 6x7 aspect ratio and the hasselblad's 6x6 aspect ratio when I feel I wish to. But It's taken a few years to get to this, and I was always thinking about the consequences of my choices when I did decide to give it a go.

Yep, I love equipment, and I'm a bit of a gear head at heart, but I also know that the final work is what's most important. I also recognise that by changing, or introducing something, or too many things in one go, what I may like about my current work may be lost. But it also may be enhanced in some way I never imagined. Change is good, but without time to master new things, and time to reflect as to how it is impacting your existing style, it's an unnavigable landscape we're working in. And for my own creativity's sake, I'd much rather be somewhere where the terrain is familiar, and isn't going to lead to any creative frustrations. Think long and hard before changing your workflow.

Mountain Light - 25th Anniversary Edition

I only found out this week, that ‘Mountain Light’ - a must read for any landscape photographer or adventure photographer, was re-released in 2011.

For a long time, this book was out of print and I know many friends and workshop participants who had to scour second hand book stores on the internet to secure a second hand copy of it. So I’m pleased to see it’s been reprinted and available again.

The new edition is exactly like the first one in all respects, with one change - the introduction is written by David Muench.

This is a very important book for me, as it gave me a lot of enthusiasm and inspiration to go out there and make photographs in the wilderness. Mountain Light freed my thoughts from equipment and steered me towards the art of seeing, the art of being inspired and of finding my own sense of vision. Galen Rowell is an excellent writer and in this book, he covers the essentials of what a landscape photographer is, and he does it without much mention of technology, or equipment.

As David Muench states in the apt introduction, Galen’s photography ‘lies in the art of seeing, in the awareness that light ultimately dictates art in making photographs. This book is a classic because that truth never changes’.

I would wholeheartedly agree with David’s observation. Mountain Light is a classic book. It’s very true that the art of making good images has always lain with the eye of an artist - in the art of seeing. Technology may have changed, but the ingredients of good landscape photography have not.

As Galen says in his preface ‘if we limit our vision to the real world, we will forever be fighting on the minus side of things, working only to make our photographs equal to what we see out there, but no better’. This has been something I took very much to heart upon reading it in these very pages. I feel that when we start off making images, we almost need someone to give us license to do what we please. Galen told me it was alright for my images to have no close relation to reality and that I should strive to look for myself in what I created with my camera.

'In search of the dynamic landscape', was phrase I also took very much to heart. Galen states that the 'dynamic landscapes are photographs that combine a personal vision with splendid natural events'. I've always thought that with my own photography, just creating a pretty picture isn't good enough. It has to have soul as well. There has to be that extra something special about it, that sets it above just being a photograph.

I've found re-reading this book, has helped me enormously. I've been able to reconnect to who I was when I first started out my photographic journey, and to remind myself of the passion that I have for it. This book isn't about bagging shots, or treating photography as a trophy sport, but instead, it takes me back to the more traditional values that I still very much subscribe to and care deeply about.

The first chapter starts with 'Magic Hour', which is in a nutshell, where all landscape photographers should begin their journey. To make great pictures, you need great light and as Galen states 'most landscape photographers think of landscapes simply as objects to be photographed. They tend to forget that they are never photographing an object, but rather light itself. Where there is no light, they will have no picture; where there is remarkable light, they may have a remarkable picture'.

Three chapters in, Galen discusses soft light which is something I spent a good few years learning about. Once we've mastered the Magic Hour, it's perhaps time to turn our thoughts to other light qualities and soft light is the most important one. It allows us to capture great detail and subtle tones and it is available throughout the day when the sun is hidden behind a cloud. As Galen says, many photographers tend to put away their cameras when the sun disappears behind a cloud. I find these days that I'm pleased if the weather is overcast and if the light appears flat and boring to the human eye. Because this means there are no hard shadows as the light is bounced around the landscape like a big soft light box.

This book then, is a bible for me. It inspires me in ways that reading a book about Lightroom does not, it also inspires me to forget about the pressures that are placed upon us all to keep up with the technological race that is out there. I don't have a digital SLR and sometimes I feel I should. I don't know all the features of Lightroom or Photoshop, but then I don't really need to know. I do care however, very much about the spirit of an image and finding my soul out there in the landscape. This book teaches me that I have to find inspiration and be inspired if I am to develop my own voice.

If you can connect to yourself and be inspired, then your work will illustrate that, and good work never needs to be explained. It speaks for itself.

I've just looked around to see where you can buy this, and for once, Amazon.co.uk don't have it for a reasonable price - they are selling items for over £100 ! So if you want to buy it, my good friend Neil from Beyond Words book store here in the UK is selling it for £21.99.

Creating a market for Photography

I was delighted this week to hear that there is a new photographic gallery that has opened up in the heart of Edinburgh's city centre.

I'm so pleased, because I wish there were more galleries out there for photographers to illustrate and sell their work.

My motivation is easy to understand, because if there were, the medium would be taken more seriously as a collectable form of art than it currently is.

So this leads me onto my main reason for this post....I've been wondering just how many photographers buy the work of other photographers? I'd hazard a guess that the answer is 'not many'.

And yet, when we look at the number of people out there who take up photography and eventually wish to look for a place to exhibit their work, we will find that there are few places available for budding photographers to show their work in print form. The reason for this is simple: photographic prints do not sell for one reason or another - particularly here in the UK where there is almost no market for them. I could go into great depth as to why I believe they don't sell and I'm sure that the comments to this post will go down that route. There are of course exceptions to this when we consider the big names such as Steve McCurry or Michael Kenna, but I'm really talking about the general photographic community that you and I are part of.

There are thousands if not more photographers who create beautiful work, yet have no means to sell it. Sure we have things like Flickr and it's easy to make our own website and put up a web store in which to sell our work, but prints do not sell from websites because people need to see them in the flesh to appreciate what it is they are buying. Each time I have had an exhibition, despite reassuring buyers that everything on my site is up to the same quality as the prints they see at the exhibition, they always buy from what is on display at the exhibition, even if they prefer a particular image from my website.

In one way, photographers are more blessed these days because they have an outlet and many forums in which to illustrate their work. But the truth is that there is no market for photographic work. People do not buy prints.

I think the main issue for me is a lack of support for photography as an art form from within the photographic community itself. Many of us photographers have never bought another photographers work, because we're far too interested in selling or promoting our own work. And therein lies the problem. If we were more willing to consider other photographers work and patronise it, we would be creating a market in which many photographers, including ourselves, could flourish. In a nutshell, if we wish our work to be patronised, we should patronise others work.

I've had a look around my home, and so far, I have two prints made by other photographers. One I bought from a 'photo of the week' winner on Photo.net many years ago titled 'London Tourists' by David Malcolmson. I was so taken with the image that I contacted David and bought a print from him. It has pride of place in my sitting room and I still enjoy looking at it very much. There's something extremely satisfying about owning a piece of work that I love. I'd like to own a Michael Kenna print at some point, and I've decided to ear mark his work for some time when I know I'm in a position to invest in his work.

I've decided that this year, if things are going well for myself, I'd like to start collecting some more work by photographers I admire. So far, I've only been able to afford to buy their work in book form, and I think this is a great start. The print reproduction quality in book form these days isn't too far away from print quality (the exception for me being Ansel Adams work, which is stunningly beautiful in print form and a million miles away from the excellent reproductions in his books. Same applies to Fay Godwins work also - her prints are so beautiful and although the books are good, they pale into insignificance to her silver gelatin prints).

But books are a great way to patronise and endorse the work of a photographer you like, and perhaps this is the crux of the matter. As a photographer, I'm inspired by my heros, and I've bought just about everything that Steve McCurry or Michael Kenna have produced in book form. I get a great deal of inspiration and I learn a lot by studying their work too, but the learning is less important than the inspiration I've gained from enjoying their work. So often I feel, that it's easy to become engrossed in the 'how' of photography, rather than just enjoying the work at hand.

I'm digressing here a little perhaps. Ultimately, if we wish to have a market space for our own work to be bought and endorsed, we should be opening up ourselves to buying other photographers work, be it in book form, or as prints. We should be supporting and encouraging our field of interest, and I can think of no other better way to do this than to buy other photographers work.

Journeys are Important

A few days ago I had a very enlightening conversation with my friend Vlad that has ultimately led onto the creation of this post. We were discussing Vlad's video, and how he finds the time waiting at airports a form of mental adjustment in which he is able to prepare himself for what lies ahead. So often do I find that over the hours or days that I spend traveling some place to make photographs, there seems to be a mental transition of sorts that happens for me too. I feel it's a requirement of the creative process, almost a meditative time. Let me explain a little better.

When I first leave home, I'm usually still wrapped up very much in my home life. Friends, family, Edinburgh the town I live in, is my environment. I'm a city dweller. So while I am at home, my mind is often turned to the day to day living of being in a small city. If I were to teleport immediately to some remote landscape, I think I would find myself emotionally disorientated. I seem to need to have the journey time between home and location in which to let go of my city life, and slowly prepare, and move into the life I have while in a wilderness location.

There is a need, certainly for me, to have this time, to be able to transfer from one environment to another. Far off places, and perhaps friends who live there, are but an abstract notion when they are not immediately in my present day to day life. I have to file them away as some extension of me, and it takes me a while to step into the life of the people I know in these far off places. It also takes me a while to forget about my city life, to be able to fully let go.

There needs to be this transference stage. It's vital to have it, so that I'm emotionally ready and prepared to accept the landscapes I photograph.

Now imagine a world where distances are becoming smaller and things are becoming more immediate. Do you think these remote landscapes would be just as appealing to us if we could get there in a very short space of time? I don't think they would. We wouldn't have the appreciation for them as we wouldn't have had the settling in time, that a plane ride gives us. That time to reflect, to consider where we are going. A plane ride is forced meditation. It is a vital part of the process where we can let our minds float freely, allowing things to go and for our aspirations and anticipations of the future, to come to us. I think it's prep time, for my creativity.

This subject leads on rather neatly to the personal issues I have with what I do for a living now. Every few weeks I am away somewhere in the world. It can be a disorientating thing to be doing on a frequent basis, because it always takes me time to settle back into my Edinburgh life when I'm home, and then there is the mental and emotional demands of preparing myself for a workshop or photo tour somewhere that will require maybe a week or so of my time. I can only describe it as relocation-lag. Where it takes a while for my mind and spirit to settle into a different environment.

I'm just curious how this all affects the creative process? How do you see it affecting you? Does it take time for you to settle into a new environment before you can make images, or do you find that the newness is what inspires you to make images? Have you considered that the plane ride for a few hours, is perhaps like a meditative requirement, something that needs to be done, in order to prepare your mind for what is to come?

I think this is also why I need to have space between my shooting sessions and the post-editing. I need time to be able to absorb what it was I felt and took in while in a remote landscape. I can't be objective about it, or give the work the attention it deserves, if I come home and immediately start to edit it. I'm almost trying to complete the work, before my mind has even reached its own conclusion of the emotions and events that I'm still absorbing.

If I were to edit soon after the shoot, I feel the edits would be a rushed response, and would show little care for just what it is, that I'm still absorbing.

Traveling gives us time, and with that time, we gain insight. Travel also gives us distance, and with this distance, we gain a different kind of insight. Both contribute to the creative process in different ways. We should embrace them, because they are part of the creative journey and have impact on what it is we do and how we reach a creative conclusion.

Into the polar night

When I started out making pictures and putting them up on this website, I found over the years, that I’d get correspondence from all over the world. When I look back at the early days , I can still remember the first emailers. I had maintained a long standing dialog with them while I was an amateur myself. Over the years while my own hobby turned gradually into my current profession, I had one or two stalwarts who maintained a beautiful correspondence with me. They never seemed to lose sight of me, nor I them.

One of those stalwarts was Vladimir Donkov.

A young Bulgarian photographer, Vlad was busy carving a career for himself, and doing things in the photography world before he was 20 years old, that most of us in our 40’s are still dreaming about.

Vlad would email me perhaps once, maybe twice a year, just to check in, tell me about his own photographic journey. I’d never met him in person, but over those initial years of working on my own hobby and website, I felt I’d kind of got to know him well. To me, Vlad was and is still, someone I relate to because we share the same passion.

Then, in 2009, Vlad emailed me to tell me of his plans to go and shoot images in the Norwegian winter. Oooh, I’d always wanted to go and make images in the snow, and so I thought I would accompany Vlad on his journey there. For some reason, I was under the impression that he had invited me, but we have many jokes these days about how I actually invited myself along on his trip!

So in March 2010, I went to the Lofoten Islands, at the time, a still relatively unknown location for winter shooting and met up with Vlad. He was perhaps 24 years old at this time, and I was 42 years old. I kind of like to think it’s funny how the numbers are reversed. I was wary that he might think me an old bore, or that I find him too young or immature. I’m glad to say that I found a great friend in him (despite him probably finding me immature ;-)

Vlad was solely responsible for me coming to Norway's Lofoten islands in winter, and I think he needs the recognition for being the one who started off what is now turning out to be a photographer's winter paradise. Each month, I see images of Lofoten appear on my facebook page from amateurs and professionals that have been drawn to the place for the same reasons Vlad and myself love it. It is a stunningly beautiful and wild place.

Vlad emailed me today to let me know about a new project - a video - that he has been working on. He’s made a really nice video of his work in the Moskenes region of the Lofoten Islands and the video has been done in conjunction with the support of Hasselblad. The video is excellent, and I just want to share it with you, as I feel it's inspiring to see him out there, in the Lofoten landscape, working his magic.

I think it's fantastic when people realise their dreams, or have a 'go-do' attitude. Vlad clearly has this and is very much following his own path.

If you'd like to know more about Vlad, and see some of his work, his site is called VerticalShot.com.

Neil Gaiman's 'Make good Art' speech

I was sent a link to Neil Gaiman's wonderful speech today, where although the subject title is 'make good art', he really covers how to lead a creative life, and all the aspects of life that come with it.

Watching this video has given me pause, because many of the points he makes, I have either shared, or experienced during my own photographic / commerce journey the past four / five years.

The main point for me, is that ever since I started my own photographic business, I have never created any images because I felt I should. I created what I created, because I wanted to. I've found that living a more truthful creative life, has brought rewards for me in more ways that I could have imagined. Not only have I enjoyed what I do more, because my art is 'me', but I've also attracted many beautiful people and events into my life because they responded to who I am in my pictures. I've had many people tell me they felt they knew me before they met me, because they see and feel something in my work.

Neil also covers the point that not knowing what you're doing, is a good thing. Because you tend to create something fresh and new, and when that happens, there are no rule books out there to say how it should, or shouldn't be done. So often in life have I felt that the words 'shouldn't, or 'can't' are used too frequently. 'Mustn't, Shouldn't, Wouldn't, Couldn't' are all words that should be banned if you want to move forward with your own dreams.

In my own photographic journey, I never set out to copy anyone else's workshops, photographic style, or ideas. I've just run with what I thought would be good ideas because they inspired me to work on them. I've gone to certain locations around the world because I was attracted to them. For no other reason. It has all come back to me in spades of positivity as a result of staying true to my own voice.

And having your own voice is vital, if you want to be happy doing what you do.

Above all, Neil covers the point that a creative life is one of surprises and discoveries. I subscribe to this very much and have seen much evidence of great things come my way, all because I set some ideas I thought were good, in motion. I don't know where I'm going with what I'm doing, and I find that an immensely freeing and inspiring place to be.

I hope you get something out of his speech, because I feel there is a lot of great wisdom in there for all of us. Not just the photographers in us.

Dissonance in Photographs?

In the world of music, dissonance is something that is learned at an advanced stage in the development of any musician whether they are simply learning to play or while writing their own compositions. Consider that during the early stages of musical development, most musicians learn to play (and also write) very simple melodies. Structures are uncomplicated and the use of chords as an expression is perhaps somewhat limited. Over time, as they develop, they delve into more complex musical structures and eventually begin to incorporate chords and complex overtones that have feelings of tension and expectation to them. This is known in musical terms as 'dissonance'. Dissonance is not a bad thing, it can provide depth and complexity to music and take us into different worlds of feeling and mood. We've all been subjected to it, for example - in film scores where it is used to convey drama. The music becomes extremely agitated and complex. It is a universal language we all understand.

Yesterday I had a very nice conversation with a musical friend of mine about this very topic. Since the conversation, I've been considering if there is a parallel to 'dissonance' in photographic images. I'm certainly aware that we can have dissonance in photographs, but I'm not altogether clear if dissonance is a good thing in images. Is it possible to have an image that creates tension, but at the same time be pleasing to our eye?

I also think that it's not possible to use musical development as a similar analogy to that of image making, as they both appear to be opposite from each other. In music, simple compositions or melodies are often encountered early on in our musical tastes and development, while more complex forms of music are often acquired over a long period of time while we learn to enjoy their depth and meaning. With photographic images, we often start with very busy, complex scenes, because we haven't developed our eye to remove all the distracting elements contained within the frame. It is only over many years that we become able to refine our compositional eye and notice things that need to be removed.

This has been my assumption until yesterdays conversation with my music friend. I'm now unsure if my idea that imagery should be simple, is a correct one. Certainly for many people who wish to improve their photography, gaining a more selective eye is a good thing. But what if you do want to create images that have a degree of tension in them? Surely it is ok for an image to be overly complex, to have a dissonance to it - if this is what you intended?

I think there is a difference between dissonance in an image, and a bad composition. For me, dissonance implies that the work is good, while containing a degree of tension in it. Bad compositions are often bad photographs because the composition creates a form of tension that is displeasing to the viewer's eye.

I'd like to hear your views, and maybe you can point me towards work where you feel there is dissonance (read tension) while at the same time, the work is superb. I'd love to hear from you.

postnote: I deliberately used the two images of Raudfoss in Iceland in this posting, because I feel there is perhaps more tension in the first image due to the more fractured foreground landscape. The second image has a less fractious foreground, with more space and is perhaps therefore calmer than the first. But there is still a degree of complexity to both of them, and I'm wondering if this is dissonance, of a sort? The images aren't bad, in fact, I'm very pleased with them, but there is certainly a complex overtone to both of them. How else may dissonance be conveyed in an image? A dramatic thunderous sky perhaps can convey drama, but does it convey tension? Do you feel on edge when looking at pictures of storms?

Working for free, is a mugs game

A few days ago, I saw Bill Schwab post this on facebook: "I just got a letter from a writer wanting my images for a Huffington Post article. I was given the tired, old line of... "They don't pay their contributors, but the exposure would be great."

Sorry, I don't work for people that don't pay their contributors. No one should. You're only cutting your own throat and those of your fellow creatives. I've been at this a long time and never once has free exposure lead to a paying job. It only marks you as a sucker."

I completely agree and have had a fair share of this kind of correspondence over the years I've been doing photography.

Initially, what seemed like an honour to have my images used by some organisation and have them printed and available with exposure, soon gave way to a bad taste in my mouth. The exposure was pointless because no one ever asked who the photographer was, and yet, the company got a lot of value out of having a beautiful image adorn their promotional activities.

If you are an amateur, hoping to make a living from your photography, the first bit of advice I would give you is to not give your work away for free. The second bit of advice would be to tell you not to undersell yourself, so don't give your stuff away for a knock down rate either. A poor rate suggests poor work, and no one is left in a position to admire you for what you do, least of all respect you, if you don't believe in yourself.

The other thing, is that giving your photographic time and work away for nothing kills the market. The problem is unfortunately, there's always someone out there who gets so flattered that they were asked, that they forget that they need to protect and look after their own work.

I get so many emails from friends or workshop participants who have been blown away by someone approaching them to use their images, often with the assumption that they will do it for free, and get some exposure of some kind out of it. Trust me - you won't.

Respect who you are, and respect your work. If people want what you do, they will demonstrate it by paying you for it.

Isle of Arran - Sold out

This trip is now sold out. Just to let you all know.

In the realm of nature

I love Eliot Porter's work very much. For me, he is as this book introduces him 'an artist of uncommon perception'. I couldn't agree more.

I've been thinking lately that most landscape photography goes no further than a website for the majority of photographers out there. In some ways, it is unfortunate to think that many of us spend $$$$ on cameras that can record great tonality and resolution, only for everything we do, to be reduced down to a jpeg that is displayed on Flickr or facebook or our own personal websites.

I bring this up, because some images work better than others on certain mediums, and I will stick my neck out here and say that often images with high impact, lots of contrast and a degree of 'boldness' to them are more readily embraced on the web, than those that have more subtle tone to them. Books, as I've been saying for a while, are able to convey the finesse of an image that may often be lost on the web.

We're living in an age where the mediums that are most prevalent, dictate that most of the images we consume are bold.

But bold is boring.

As a new photographer, many of us are enraptured by high contrast and it's one of the first things we go in search of. Likewise too, the iconic landscape. We're not looking for subtlety at all. As our tastes and eye develop, we do start to slowly appreciate what is maybe less obvious but just as valid. Subtlety of tone, and also, subtlety of subject too.

With this in mind, i've really enjoyed looking at Eliot Porter's 'In the Realm of Nature'. In it, I'm presented with beautiful compositions of anonymous landscapes, ones where I do not recognise the landscape because the usual suspects are not present. Instead, I'm given frames filled with foliage which on the surface could seem extremely busy, but when looked at a bit further, I discover there is simplicity conveyed by the use of dense nature. I quickly stopped looking for that iconic mountain or classic viewpoint, and instead, I just began to feel myself enjoying nature for what it is - simple beauty.

Eliot Porter did not make dramatic photographs in the way we have become accustomed to. Missing is the hard contrasts, the moody landscape or the overdone iconic place. Instead, we are presented with very natural, relaxed compositions with a care towards the macro. With a care towards nature.

It's of no surprise to me that he was a supporter of the preservation of the natural landscape, but what does surprise me is the sense of rejection he had from those around him who did not consider colour photography an art form. He was an early adopter of colour, and in this book, it's a very joyous thing to be able to see the colours of film emulsions that I'm noticing are no longer so present in our contemporary visual dictionary.

For me, this book is a welcome reprieve from the overly dramatic. Perhaps I see things in his work, that I feel I haven't explored so much in my own.

He seems accepting of the landscape he encounters during a casual walk and reminds me, that I don't have to go far to create beautiful images if I so chose to.