When I was seven, I spent a summer exploring the woods along the river
bottomland of a rural farm. My vivid impressions of that place have never
faded: the hiss and rush of water over cobbles; the sharp scent of nettles
and blackberries thick on the banks;tiger swallowtails flashing high in the
open glades; the quiet pools reflecting the land-locked half of the world.
Although I returned to my urban home that fall, I never forgot the joy of
exploring that semi-wild place. It was the perfect schooling for someone
who would eventually become a landscape photographer.
Photography brought another kind of magic to my life. The first time I
looked through a camera and saw the focused image so exquisitely
rendered on the ground glass, I was hooked. Here was another way to
regard the world.
I have never lost my enchantment with the natural world or photography.
The woods and streams I photograph are a second home for me; what I
draw from them comes from long acquaintance. I look for the small
gestures that reveal the whole: how the bark peels away from the trunk
of the aspen tree; how light shimmers off wet leaves after a spring rain.
My photographs celebrate what the poet Seamus Heaney once called “the
music of what happens.” I first encountered that music long ago walking
the river of my childhood. I still seek it out today.