Today, the picture is quite different. Technology has overcome limitations we once faced. But with this new reality came a world of new challenges.
Photography can easily become a dangerous tool that alienates us from our surroundings, disconnecting us from reality as we become mere witnesses concerned more about the photo than the moment. But photography can also be the perfect motivation to seek new worlds and fresh experiences. I love the process of photographing the world, with the discoveries, the surprises, the unexpected, the hurdles, the successes and the failures found there.
When I am asked to give advice about photography, as bizarre as it might sound, my answer is always the same: learn to delete. We are privileged, living with the creative power that gives us so much freedom to experiment. But that freedom quickly disappears if we aren’t able to delete the junk. And, yes, junk it is.
Our capacity to create without any limit has rendered us prisoners of our own creations. We don’t own our photos anymore – they own us. Deleting photos (not moments!) can give our power of creativity room to grow, and can return the value and respect to captured moments.
Deleting photos is more than making room; it is an empowering skill and a crucial tool in developing the craft. By deleting photos you don’t like, you start to discover what you do like. You start taking ownership of your photos, and with ownership comes pride and with pride comes value. Instead of being passive, you become an active participant in the art of telling stories. Instead of letting the photos dictate your narrative, you create the narrative.
It’s a great irony that our photos have become ephemeral. Not because their existence is limited but because their value disappears. By taking so many photos and failing to keep only the good ones, we devalue the same moments we spend so much time capturing.
This exercise of deleting is ultimately about not letting “things” define us. It is about being able to separate the excess from the meaningful and choosing quality over quantity. It is about taking a stand on what we like and surround ourselves with. Above all, it is about existing in the moment, honouring and respecting the people we love, the places we cherish and the times we want to remember forever.
Red Fox, Kodiak Island, Alaska
ISO 400, 300mm, ƒ/6.7, 1/1000s
Journal
The recipient of my thoughts and secrets, the keeper of my adventures, the journal goes wherever I go. On its pages I record my joys, my failures, wishes and struggles. At the end of the day, when darkness sets in, when the gear has been stowed and the dishes have been cleaned, I lie down on my sleeping bag inside the tent, protected from the wind and the rain, from hungry mosquitoes, from tiny blackflies and from wild animals roaming at night. I grab my pen and relive the day, drawing like a child who hasn’t improved his drawing skills since kindergarten. I create a visual that connects me to the events of the day, with big bold letters defining the themes.
I try to let go of the words that have set up residence in my head without much censorship. Sometimes I wonder, why am I writing? Who am I writing to? Wasn’t writing invented as a way to communicate? What is the reason for writing to no one but myself? Perhaps I write to defy the limits of time. Will someone read this one day, long after I am dead, when my digital stories are lost and gone forever? Will these pages define my legacy? These random thoughts don’t have any real purpose besides having a permanency the digital world can’t offer.
Are these pages part of this unique puzzle that makes me who I am – the window to a soul that has doubts and worries? A peek at the child buried in the subconscious who hasn’t really become an adult? If you connect all these pages, all these words, will they expose the true identity that exists beyond my persona?
There is something powerful about transferring your thoughts onto paper. It is like clearing the attic. All these thoughts in your head, this energy that needs to be expressed, these words that need to come to life. Writing on the computer doesn’t give you that experience. The physicality of writing, drawing and painting with your fingers cannot be replicated. Every time the pen touches the paper, my personality and state of mind are shown to me, my emotions are revealed. It is an intimate connection between my brain, my heart and my journey.
For reasons that still perplex me, I am revealing to you a secret side of my journey. Do as you wish, read the pages, analyze the writing, decipher the words, explore my ego and draw your own conclusions. I hope you will see beyond the image, and images, and discover a man, a simple human being finding his way in the world, wanting to do good, wanting to inspire others in their personal journeys to success – when you can own the choices you make. When you know what you want. When you take control of your life. When you find that feeling of satisfaction the moment you wake up each morning and carry it with you throughout the day until you go to bed.
Winter, Eden, Utah
ISO 400, 26.6mm, ƒ/7.1, 1/1000s
Wallowa, Joseph, Oregon
ISO 200, 32.6mm, ƒ/22, 1/13s
Self Portrait, Eden, Utah
ISO 250, 10mm, ƒ/8, 1/9s
Climbing the
Mountain
The backpack sits heavy on my shoulders. In front of me the mountain stands tall. Beyond its peak, a cloudless sky foretells the added struggle the sun will bring to the ascent. It is amazing how something so desirable can become so detrimental. On any other day I would welcome this bright star shining down on me, but right now my mind is filled with fantasies of giant clouds rolling in from beyond the horizon, spreading themselves over my head and taking away this sunny encumbrance. I close my eyes and dream
of shade, its cool and refreshing embrace that would boost my endurance and somehow magically make the load on my back much lighter. I take a deep breath and murmur, “It is what it is! Tonight I will be closer to the stars, sleeping at the summit, with a breathtaking view of the valley and a front-row seat for sunrise tomorrow.”
The beginning is always treacherously easy. My body is full of energy and my mind swimming in optimism. The trail is wide and the incline barely steeper than a regular hike. From down below, the climb appears as an imaginary line traced over a terrain that makes no difference between a solid slab of granite and a loose patch of igneous rocks. Another deep breath, another murmur: “It doesn’t look too difficult. It should take me about three hours.” As much as I want to believe I am in possession of all the information I need, as much as I want to predict the outcome, my knowledge and understanding of the endeavour are simply speculative. The truth is I can only prepare myself for the expected and be ready for the unexpected.
Over the next four hours, I will trip twice. I will stop to rest more times than my pride wants to admit. I will wonder on several occasions why I thought it would be a good idea to go to sleep at the top of the mountain. Five times I will look at my watch and ask myself how much longer it will take. In the last hour, my mind will repeat over and over: “Just one more step, I’m almost there.” During the entire ascent, I will analyze mentally the contents of my backpack, inside out, and wonder what gear I could have left behind to shed some weight, or what I could have done differently to alleviate the challenge. But, as I reach the summit, my sight is suddenly free to fly across the valley, and my feeling of struggle disappears. Exhaustion and pain become something of the past, and all this released tension slingshots back, filling me with pure exhilaration and a deep sense of accomplishment. “I made it!” – a whisper escapes my lips. Barely rested and refreshed, I look in all directions and rejoice at the view with all the new possibilities laid before my eyes. Today’s goal might have been about completing this ascent, but for my desire in seeking new experiences it is only an episode.
For my relentless curiosity and unwavering need to learn, today’s challenge was a simple lesson about life and myself.
Sunrise, Eden, Utah
ISO 200, 135mm, ƒ/9, 1/75s
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Getting
Lost
Hours ago, my compass was bearing straight, steady and holding course. Now I look at the needle and it is pointing in all directions, going everywhere but the place where I want to go, leaving me in a twilight zone of torment.
How many times have I felt this way? How many times have I faced uncertainty and felt lost, this feeling of powerlessness creeping from the inner depth of my insecurity? I have always been able to look back at those moments with acquired wisdom and see how positively transforming those truly unfortunate events turned out to be, how much I grew personally and spiritually. I know I will be okay and that I will make it through. I have been here before, and I have all the tools and capacity to find my way out. But this chaotic present is still a burden of monumental proportions, and that is okay.
Erika Harris, author of The POWER of Your Intense Fragility, has a wonderful quote: “It is good to feel lost…because it proves you have a navigational sense of where ‘Home’ is. You know that a place that feels like being found exists. And maybe your current location isn’t that place but, Hallelujah, that unsettled, uneasy feeling of lost-ness just brought you closer to it.”
Besides reaffirming our sense of belonging, these forced detours are always filled with unexpected treasures, if only we open ourselves to seeing them. I have lost count of the times when I have found the most beautiful places, met the most amazing people, lived the most incredible moments and discovered my most cherished possessions, only after losing myself and surrendering to the moment, letting the flow of life carry me and my intuitions guide me.
There is an undeniable sadness and anxiety when faced with uncertainty. Let’s be honest, who really takes complete pleasure in being at a point in time and space that seems to be disconnected from everything? The answers, as distant as they may seem, reside inside of us. It is that place that feeds our intuition and only wants to protect us. My fears and doubts will often be the loudest and quickest to react, urging me to flee and find shelter. But, in those moments when my sense of orientation disappears, the bearing to find my way back home, the clarity that will illuminate my world once again, all appear when I let go and open myself.
The key is to accept the predicament and understand I have no power over the past, but I do hold the keys to the future.
Self Portrait, Antelope Island, Utah
ISO 200, 10mm, ƒ/3.5, 1/2000s
THE POWER OF NATURE
NURTURES
AWAKENS
TRANSCENDS
UPLIFTS
RESTORES
ELEVATES
THE HUMAN SPIRIT
Young Southern Elephant Seal, Patagonia, Argentina
ISO 500, 300mm, ƒ/6.3, 1/320s
Connection
It happens every time. I’m not sure how or why, but I always know when it does. I sense that my presence is no longer a threat; from there a connection is established. We start to communicate; they observe me, I observe them, they make a move and wait, I do the same.
There is no longer them and me, but Us – we are all part of the same world. We share this beach, this ocean, this air, this moment. Our existence is bound together, to this planet. Our goal is the same: to survive, to live.
Black-White Hawk-Eagle, Misiones, Argentina
ISO 400, 210mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/250s
Crown Solitary Eagle, Misiones, Argentina
ISO 400, 170mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/200s
Wildlife
When I photograph wildlife, I don’t hide from them; I want them to see me. Through my photos, I seek to create totems. My goal is to capture their inner spirit, their energy. I want to acknowledge and celebrate a creature that has successfully carved itself a niche in the tree of evolution. I want to connect with them in the same manner that a student looks up to his teacher. There is so much for me, for us, to learn from them. I want to meet their gaze and share that deep, inherited sense of commonality we have. I want to look into their eyes, and I want them to look into mine.
When I press the shutter, there isn’t me, the human, and it, the wild animal. Rather, there is Us. Two creatures sharing this space, breathing the same air, doing what we can to survive and protect the ones we care for and love.
Steller Sea Lions, Elfin Cove, Alaska
ISO 500, 300mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/1000s
Bison, Antelope Island, Utah
ISO 320, 200mm, ƒ/4.5, 1/2000s
Curiosity
The massive bison stands only a few metres away; his height is double that of the bushes around him. If I were to stand beside him, the top of his hump would still be a foot above my head. I sit on the ground, my eyes level with his. One of his horns holds a branch he has snatched just a few minutes before when he scratched his furry head on the sagebrush. This improvised crown gives him a sense of notoriety and aristocracy deserving of official recognition. This herbivore was indeed once the king of this land, so it is only proper for me to bow in front of a surviving royal.
I believe we mammals are impulsively curious. There is something deep inside our genes that pushes us to seek contact with others. We are social beings.
Gaudy Sphinx Moth, Misiones, Argentina
ISO 100, 98mm, ƒ/22, 1/90s
Black Caimans, Corrientes, Argentina
ISO 200, 173mm, ƒ/16, 114s
Southern Sea Lion, Patagonia, Argentina
ISO 400, 300mm, ƒ/6.3, 1/2500s
Equality
Every species on Earth is exceptional. Each has mastered its survival by adapting and expertly occupying a niche within the planet’s ecosystem. Everything and every species, including us, has evolved and survived by becoming the best at one thing.
Indigenous cultures understand and honour this way of looking at the world. They don’t see themselves as above anyone or anything, but rather, alongside all other life and part of its complex web. Animals, plants and insects are respected and honoured for their abilities.
The Power of the Voice
The black bear stood tall, mounted on his hind legs, only five metres away from me. His nose was covered with long grey and brown hair – remnants of a deer carcass he was feeding on. His front claws hung ahead of him while his rear claws dug firmly into the ground. His nostrils grew larger and smaller in rhythm, inhaling the air with vigour, deciphering what secrets the emptiness around us held. His fur was wet and looked heavy and scrubby, the weight of winter hibernation still apparent. Our eyes, those evolutionary marvels, so similar to each other despite belonging to such distinct species, were locked and engaged in a sort of staring contest. As if on cue, the birds stopped chirping and the forest became silent. Just a slight cold breeze bristled the needles of Pacific Northwest conifers. From some distant corner of my memory came the iconic musical notes of a Western movie duel.
I had left Telegraph Cove earlier that day. This tiny historical village is on the north end of Vancouver Island, about six hours from Victoria. After paddling south for about eight kilometres, I set up camp. The plan was to spend the night there and cross Johnstone Strait the next day, visit the famous OrcaLab and circumnavigate Hanson Island. With my tent up and food hoisted in a tree, I grabbed my camera and went on a hike to investigate the area.
About 20 minutes later I hear a crunching noise, somewhere not far to my right, through a thick green canopy. The sound puzzles me. My hearing over the years has become attuned to strange things. The wilderness is full of weird melodies, but this one forces me to consider the repertoire of possibilities.
Binoculars in hand, I crouch and move forward, slowly and silently, like a lion stalking its prey. My blood rushes, my pupils dilate and my senses become ultra-heightened. My instinctive hunting mode has just turned on. I am aware of everything – the ground beneath me, the air around me, the trees above. Every step becomes a thoughtful pro
cess, assessing the sturdiness of leaves and branches before I delicately place my foot or hand. When I photograph an animal, I make a point of not hiding, but this is different. I don’t know what is on the other side of the curtain. Before I announce myself, I want to know what or who is there.
Inching closer to the noise, I notice a change in the landscape pattern through the binoculars. What was green is now black. It takes me only a fraction of a second to realize it’s a black bear. But what is he doing? He is not moving. The bear remains in one spot, his head low and moving slightly upward from time to time, his body stationary. He seems focused on one task. What is it? I see nothing specific on the ground, yet the bear is tearing at something. He is certainly not digging. There is no sign of a carcass, no obvious bones, nothing that gives me a clue. I continue to move closer.
Feel the Wild Page 2
