Terrell Brothers Roadtrip 2023 - Monograph
Photographers will tell you various things about closure in photography. Some say that a photograph isn’t really a photograph until it’s been printed. Although I don’t entirely agree with that, there is something to it given that a print is really something very different than an image on a screen (not to belittle how incredible images can look on a high definition screen). With prints, the expression of an image can also change over time and the printing will vary, which gives images a life of their own. One need look no further than observing how Ansel’s interpretation of Moonrise, Hernandez NM changed over time.
Others say that the solitary image is lacking, and that one should really think in terms of projects. I’m of more mixed feelings with that one. Sometimes images stand a lone, others call out to be brought together. But there are true benefits to thinking about images as a collection, even if they don’t constitute a project or even come together as a collection.
Regardless of how one approaches it, sometimes there’s something about images that keep calling you until you’ve found closure with them. Not that it’s the last time you’ll work with them, but more like they sit with you, pester you, periodically knock on your door until you find their place. For me, that’s often been been the case with the series of monographs I’ve made. And the images from the Terrell Brothers Road Trip 2023 kept nibbling away at me until I decided to take the time, thought and effort into compiling a monograph.
A couple of the photographers I follow consistently talk about collections of images. Whether it’s specific projects, end of year compilations, or the need to bring together the images from a major trip, presenting a group of images is difficult. It’s a skill to develop, an art in and of itself (one I haven’t come close to mastering). What are the images really about? Is there a coherency with them - through subject matter, or format, or light, or something else? It’s not easy bringing together something like that, because all too often, you have to leave out some dear treasures for the betterment of the collection. And even then, you don’t quite know what the whole is going to be. Will it turn out well? Will it move others, who don’t have the experiences you had while making the images? Do any of the images detract from the collective, yet you’re so attached to it you can’t see that it does? It’s not an easy process and I can see why so many people avoid it. Still, for me, the images keep bugging me until I settle them into a place they want to be. So I endure the agony of the process to hopefully reap the rewards and . . . to give the images a home.
The struggle with this monograph was settling on a theme, or at least a guiding principle to help bring some coherency to the images. I’d used so many different formats (3:4 a lot, my usual square, the occasional native format 2:3, and then the often perfectly suited 16:9), that having consistency in image formats and even orientation (horizontal or vertical) was near impossible to apply. Unless I wanted a monograph of just a few images, which is of course acceptable, there was going to be some variety in aspect ratios and horizontal/vertical images. It took me a few days of going through the images, selecting pretty much anything I thought was worthy of inclusion, to finally settle on a theme I could use to whittle away at the images. In this case, it was two fold, one of which I’d mentioned in an earlier blog post.
In one of the early sets of iPhone images I’d sent Ann during the trip, she commented on how “different” my images were than before. They’re still me, but they had a different orientation, they included more of the landscape. It made me feel good at the time to hear Ann say that because that choice was intentional. With every new trip you should push yourself to focus on something that is . . . a bit outside your comfort range. That’s how you get better, and also how you avoid coming back from a trip with mages that pretty much look just like the ones you’ve taken before. So one theme of this monograph is a focus on the landscape - sometimes a bit intimate, sometimes grand - and staying away from the more abstract or detail types of images I so enjoy making.
The other guiding principle was that I wanted the images to tell something of the place where they were made, revealing the place’s character, even if it was a bit unusual for that place.
It may sound simple, landscapes that speak of place, but it’s really not, particularly if you don’t want typical picture post card views of everywhere. Of course, some of the locations we photographed at had to be dropped (due to sheer numbers of images made during the trip, others due to the limited number of prints that can fit in the monograph folder, and for others . . . well, sometimes the images didn’t quite live up to my hopes). All total, there are a dozen plus one images in the monograph. In the end, I let the trip decide the sequencing of the photographs - they are presented in the order they were made. You judge for yourself whether each deserves inclusion and whether the whole has merit.
I was fortunate to make a couple of lovely images my first day of photographing on a trip. That’s rarer than one might think. I knew when I made this image at the Petrified Forest, NP, it should be special. The light bouncing between the upper mounds was sublime. The rest was a struggle in tonal contrasts. Still, it called out to be made, particularly given the compositional sweep of the certified log down the draw. And I have to thank Ann for a recommended final adjustment with the lower gravel rocks that let me feel the image is as I saw it. It was not an easy image to develop, but photography often (but not always) rewards effort.
Our second morning found us at Canyon de Chelly. The place is magical, even from the rim.
I hadn’t expected much from the view at Spyder Rock. Often, photographs at famous places leave one wanting. Anyone who has been to Yosemite and then compared their images to Ansel’s knows what I’m speaking of. However, Len and I were gifted a beautiful morning with the sun streaking across the canyon floor. It’s why I love morning photography. Sometimes you are truly blessed. Spyder rock in this instance is a side-show, but that’s ok. Joe Cornish recently commented in a video that he has increasingly not made the prominent landscape feature the prominent feature of the image. He’s content with letting famous mountains, etc. play a background role to the image as a whole, adding to it without it being the subject. Perhaps that’s what happened here. Who is to say? I’m no Joe Cornish.
Monument Valley is a difficult place to photograph. Like Yosemite, so much of the main attractions have been photographed (a lot), and they are so familiar to anyone who has watched a lot of Wild West movies, not just photographers. As a result, I didn’t photograph much while I was there, and mostly with my point-and-shoot when I felt a composition was worth framing. When I pulled over at this stop, as much for Len to check it out as me, I hadn’t planned on pulling out my Fuji. I’d been here (and photographed) before, so I wasn’t expecting to be moved by the imagery. But I was and I’m glad for it. And when I was done photographing and putting my camera away, Len called me back because some wild horses had made their way into the scene. Out came the camera again.
Much of our trip we were blessed with high, hazy clouds, which in the desert can just take the edge off of the pounding harsh midday sunlight. We got lucky that way. Also, I enjoy animals in an image, even if they’re small specks. It reminds one that this is a lived-in place, even a harsh desert environment like this is alive, something we too often forget.
Not far from Monument Valley, just across the border in Utah, is Valley of the Gods. There’s nothing exceptional to see really - the landscape is pretty much what it is for miles driving up to it - but it’s a wonderful place to camp and a wonderful place to discover just how amazing a desert morning can be. The early-morning clouds were too heavy to have that magic pre-dawn light, but boy did that morning reveal to us what the rising sun can give those who pay attention. This was one of those images I didn’t think too much of while I was making it. I only realized how lovely it was after looking at it again and again. Its simplicity is deceiving.
I’ve printed this image large (it is lovely) and smaller. For a grand landscape it handles small well. But I learned something printing the smaller image. If you look in the shadows of the cliff to the right, you’ll see a small, lighter colored boulder. On the large print, it is a boulder. In the smaller print . . . it’s a distraction that looks like the ink mis-fed. Wanting the Monograph to not have any glaring errors, I re-worked it, removing the boulder (the distraction) from the final image. Sometimes, you have to print things differently when you’re printing them smaller.
This image from the Canyon Lands NP Needles District was a version of an image I’d made the last time I was here. Of course the light is different, and some of the composition is different, particularly along the left edge, but the concept is the same - the foreground nook of rocks and bushes, followed by the sweeping rock ledge that leads the eye to the rock features in the distance. One of the things I enjoyed about this trip was revisiting some of the places I’d been to before, and not feeling the need to repeat what I’d done before. Here, I consciously wanted to re-work this image. To me, it tells so much about the nature of this landscape. I wasn’t re-making an image, I was exploring the same location. There’s a difference between the two and I suspect that should I return, I’ll work the image yet again.
The Needles District gave us a lot of offerings in the afternoon and morning we were there. This was an image I’d set up pre-sunrise, and then waited, for the sun to creep above the horizon. Sometimes that pays off, often it doesn’t. That morning it did, like with the Valley of the Gods, the morning light bringing life to the landscape, even if for a short while, before the desert harshness puts its face back on.
I think the best of images have a variety of elements at play. For landscapes, it’s not just of the place, but often it’s also of the light, or the weather that adds to the image. Despite what I consider a successful image, I don’t advise trying to photograph in a dust storm. For one thing, it hurts. But when you see it coming, mainly by feeling the wind and seeing the sand it’s carrying coming towards you, it’s worth making an image or two before it hits. Hopefully, you’ve managed to cover the lens before anything scratches it. I have to say that the sand storm revealed images in Goblin Valley that I’d never noticed before. Perhaps they aren’t even there without it. That’s the thing about landscape photography, you’re at the mercy of the weather and the light, as well as the place. But if you’re patient and determined, and grab at every opportunity that’s given to you, it can be something truly special and give you images that can’t be made any other way.
This rarely happens with a collection of images - two monograph images taken in sequence, one after the other. This image (well, the set it was taken from) is the next set of images following the one above. Given the sand storm, I’d decided to pack up and move to another part of the park. By the time I’d walked there, the sand had blown over. The wind was still blowing, but not at gale-force wind level and without the sand. One could work with it. The light, the landscape and the goblins did the rest. I’d photographed these goblins before, but I’d always felt they were unsuccessful images. Not this one. The goblins within the Goblin Valley are special, but so is the area around it, with the Grand Raphael Swale overlooking it. Perhaps the sand storm gave me two images, not just one.
I’ve spoken about photographing at the edges of light, which is what I so love to do. Pre-dawn and post-dusk light are special, when the conditions are right. The landscape speaks differently in that light and when you wait long enough to hear it, it sings a lovely tune. As with this image, pale desert colors come to life with a vibrancy that can be shocking. This was what I was hoping for when I planned for us to spend an evening out by Factory Butte. With this image, the print far surpasses the image on-screen. The colors and the transitions between the blues-browns-yellow-reds-blues-pinks are simply lovely.
Because the morning light is just as stunning as the evening light, I agonized over several images from the next morning. It’s hard to keep up with the landscape as it changes under those conditions, but the imagery rewards effort. Everything seems to change every 3-5 minutes, and the special quality only seems to last a few moments before it’s over, and then a new set of qualities arise, until it’s finally over. All you can do is be there and try to see what’s happening and then capture it. Add to that the forms and colors of a special place, and the potentials seem endless. Again, the above is an image where the print surpasses the screen. Ann encouraged me to print it, and I’m glad she did.
Not all of the monograph images are of grander landscapes. If there is one thing I wish we’d had more time to do, it would have been to visit more of the tighter canyons. I am thankful we stopped at Singing Canyon in the Grand Staircase Escalante not too far from Boulder. We somehow timed it right with light streaking through to the canyon floor, yet still reflecting off its walls to add an elegant beauty in the shadow areas.
Devil’s Garden, along the Hole in the Rock Road in the Grand Staircase Escalante, has become one of my favorite places to photograph. It always seems to offer gifts if I’m willing to search for them. Sometimes you think it’s such an interesting place that all you have to do is pick up a camera and shoot. I’ve learned that’s not the case, the hard way. The forms are wonderful to look at, but hard to photograph well. This time I told myself to slow down (and think of my “landscape” theme), even though our time there was limited. Fortunately, it all came together. The place truly can be something special.
Ending a monograph is always hard. But as I worked through selecting images this one seemed right. And as I went to develop it further, I came to appreciate just how complex, yet subtle, this image is. It rewards the thoughtful eye, yet does it modestly. To me, a suitable end.
I printed all of these images, in the order above, on 8-1/2 by 11 paper, using my trusty Red River Paolo Duro Soft Gloss Rag and compiled them into one of the paper monograph folios I have. And I made two copies of the monograph.
I hope Len enjoys his copy. He should have received it by now.