A Fragile Landscape

I’ve been messing around with favorite images that I made over the past year, during the pandemic. 

I’ve spent this period rebuilding after severe mobility challenges and surgeries, largely on solo walks around Sonoma County with my camera. I wasn’t consciously working on a project; I just followed my intuition about image choices with the faith that the meaning would eventually become clear. 

As I sorted through the dozens of images, a group emerged with a common wistful feeling and golden palette. It’s kind of electric when you realize: these belong together. They are all part of the same story. You play some more. It’s like sifting flour, sifting through the images to hear what they are saying.

And here I saw the sun. In fact, the noontime sun on September 9th, the day of endless night during California’s worst fire season ever, when ash blocked out the usual relentless glare. Portraits of trees burned in the Tubbs and Kincade fires two and three years ago, which haven’t recovered. The oh-so-welcome shade offered by the oak canopy in our increasingly parched summers.

It’s so fragile, such a poignant landscape. There was not enough rain this past winter. The fear of the season to come, and the passion for the spring wildflower bloom, are more palpable than ever.

It’s going to take more work to polish all these up for printing or posting, but I thought I’d share the process at this exciting moment.