I am particularly fond of a tree in the Whitney wilderness in the Adirondacks. Not far from a road, that most drive past quickly to get to the destination.
One morning two years ago, I noticed this maple for the first time. Most of the leaves had turned and it was slowly beginning to lose them. I counted seven, flying away in the gentle breeze, one after another. I was able to freeze one in frame, mid flight, before it disappeared into the fog, down the lake, and into everything around us.
As a boy growing up in India, if you had told me this is how I would spend my mornings thousands of miles away in two decades, I would have laughed at your face with teenage spite. But I am thankful it turned out this way. May there be more mornings like this, where I can continue to count everything to nothing.
I feel sorry for my former self who found the Adirondacks only through its mountains. And rushed many more times with the notion that beauty is only synonymous with the concentric circles on topographic contours.
Even when you think your education leads to independent thinking, it is actually shaped by the prevailing notions in your field of inquiry. A random internet search of this land will probably take you to the high peaks.
Then there is the truth that emerges quietly from the peat floor. Where spiders web from grass pink to grass pink. For a brief few days, life puts on a brazen display over a bed of sedge and sphagnum.
Let me be near to this truth all my life. Let me be wise enough to sink softly into this earth.
I have an essay titled “Inquiry in Wetlands” and a few images, primarily from the boreal wetland ecosystem in the Adirondacks. There are other wonderful essays in this volume from the editors as well as a collaborative gallery featuring images from all contributors.
The publication is free and available for download here:
There are too many curations, much dissection about how and when to release portfolios for maximum impact. This is an attempt at neither of the above except that I have some time in my hands to process a few images, and relive the experiences I have had over the years in some special corners of this place. They were made across all seasons, some alone and in contemplation, and others while running around and having a good time with friends (mostly Prajit). The images are again ordered chronologically for the sake of simplicity.
They say we see what we see and not what is out there, and what we write (or photograph) is what we know and not what we saw. On the other hand, I read this morning that ‘eyesight is also insight’ (from Rudolf Arnheim while elaborating on how visual perception works). Consider these images as hobbling towards an insight that I think truly never arrives, until one has spent a significant time of their life with the subject.
the Green River soothes A soothing moment on the Green River in an otherwise mentally miserable trip in summer of 2020.
first Fall My first time experiencing Fall in Utah in 2020, where much awe got into the way of seeing things as they are.
between the idea and reality First sunset of the year 2021, when I was physically miserable in the frigid conditions but mentally satisfied, and beginning to nurture the idea of a new future.
between the emotion and the response Spring of 2022, when I saw the fresh lime greens on cottonwoods for the first time. Since other aspects of life were somewhat conducive to well-being, I could be more present rather than being in a state of constant awe, and hence escape.
between the conception and creation
falls the shadow
it is still green
on both sides of the river A new (to me) location in Utah in 2023 that is quite popular with photographers but afforded solitude because it was summer.
off the highway Witnessing the summer storm from the safety of the road and rental car; little did I know that the following summer I will be doing a night hike in the middle of one with Prajit.
second Fall A fortunate turn of events led me to experience Fall in Utah again in 2023, this time with fog, rain, snow, and hail storms.
one of those days that makes it worth the while (summer of 2024)
when you see it Thanks to Prajit for drawing my attention to this scene, on our very hot and dry return hike from the overlook. Please check his version on his profile: Prajit Ravindran (@irockutah) Instagram photos and Reels)
the world is kin, but it is only on some days when the cloud hangs low and thick, and any light if at all, is diffused, that i am able to recognize it where there were seventy three trilliums in June now lies ninety five tamarack needles
all my life I have been warned of geography, do not step here, or mingle there if it was indeed so dangerous, how could i live with snow, having been brought up with the sun now history is another matter, yes that would certainly kill, unless you strike first
if i have to constantly fight over geography, and history is bound to be our downfall let us take respite from raping each other’s stardust and take refuge in arithmetic when seventy three trilliums is being replaced by ninety five tamarack needles, with more incoming let us look directly at the stars, being plucked away in patient hurry
i have seen the light bend its path, making the journey from me to you to me i have seen it make it right
the first electron goes to 1s orbital, the second there as well, and the next, to the next orbit, savouring their energy dance, they are on our devices, if there was a bell, the bell would ring, the swiping thumbs busier than our feet
the pines whistle, if they spoke, we will not listen, i know of electrons moving between orbitals, making light for once i want to see the light, not what it does
The stories we tell are often the stories others want to hear. It does not matter whether it pertains to photography or politics or chemistry or community.
Oftentimes, these stories we tell and the ones we want to hear are in harmony. In that case, it is important to just tell the story.
Other times, the storytelling makes us think that we have always wanted to hear that story. We may not delve into the merits of the story because of how well the story was told.
Then there are times when the stories we should tell are not what we want to hear. In these times, it is important that we tell the story as it is. It is also important that we must hear the story as it is. Any suggestions for how the story must be told is akin to censorship. And if you do not tell the story, you will eventually forget that you had stories to tell. And if you decide to not hear the story, you will eventually forget who you are.
I work by this lake. Not too long ago, I used to live within walking distance of the lake.
Needless to say that it has been a source of profound joy to walk along the shoreline. By myself, often with my dog, and camera, sometimes with students and colleagues.
Here are some images made recently, during the Spring thaw. This time, more than any other period of the year, the lake is a dynamic, shape-shifting, animated being.
The end product is after all, just a product. But I hope it conveys the joy I felt in being at the shoreline. And if you are fortunate to have access to a water body, I hope you find the time to witness the periodic eccentricities of the seasons as well.
“If your Lordship should consider that these observations may disgust or scandalize the learned, I earnestly beg your Lordship to regard them as private and to publish or destroy them as your Lordship sees fit.” – Anton van Leeuwenhoek
van Leeuwenhoek was the first person to study microbial organisms from his local pond in great detail in the 17th century. He developed his own macro camera aka the compound microscope! He was the first person to witness the blood flow in capillaries. All chaste subjects! But his colleagues egged him on to venture beyond the prevailing ethics of the time. He finally came around to the idea and examined his own ejaculation.
Life is rife with speculations, but especially so during his time. Some theories suggested that tiny pre-formed humans were nestled inside the sperm cells. Even Leeuwenhoek himself was skeptical about the ‘blasphemous’ experiments. Hence, the above disclaimer while sending the results to the Royal Society. Remember Galileo. Remember Giordano Bruno.
But Leeuwenhoek was fortunate to be in good company. The same cannot be said of sperm cells. They have to fulfill their destiny in a foreign environment. While they do not have a pre-formed life, they do possess the precursors that can bring life in conjunction with their counterparts. Millions perish, but they need to be successful only once.
Twelve thousand years ago, I might have hoped to go for a nice swim in Death Valley and make a hearty meal out of some crustaceans, not too unlike the organisms studied by Leeuwenhoek. If I were observant enough now, I could have come across the chemical remnants of the species that once called this place a home. An abundance of moisture, and a low-lying basin with no outlet made for a flourishing environment in a sub-tropical climate. But the tide changes with time. A host of geological factors that led to increasingly arid climate choked the pluvial lakes on their own minerals. Now, on a clear and warm evening, I walk among the neat, geometrically energy-efficient alkali crust left behind from ages of desiccation.
And on rare years, as thunderstorms bring rain to the valley, I see the tessellations disappear in a salty slush. I see before me a memory of what once was.
The next morning, I hike up and away from the tessellated hexagons. With the elevation as my guide, the intricate patterns in the salt flat, the alluvial fans from the dried-up lake bed, the residuum of a plethora of species that was, the dirt and dust and mud in the this Land of Little Rain– all coalesced into a green oval spermatozoon.
A camouflage of biological life, waiting with the elements. For the tide to turn again. For the Tüpippüh to flourish once more.
If it was not for the Adirondack Mountains, I would have strived to make a living in Utah. Over the years, I have been fortunate to visit different parts of Utah. I am terribly lazy and scatter-brained when it comes to processing my photos; and now with multiple trips over the years, they are starting to pile up. This is an attempt to revisit the files in hard drives, recall some of my favourite memories, and process (in some cases re-process) the images. This is not an attempt to create a portfolio of the best images or categorize in any other way.
I believe that in order to truly understand a place, one must live there. And if creation is an expressive testament to that understanding, then my images fall vastly short. Having acknowledged that, I feel that I have tried my best to understand Utah as much as an outsider can- by coming back to the same place, in different seasons, and in the same seasons in different years, reading and learning about the place, and contemplating the works of different artists from the region. All of the above have helped me make some images that I would like to share in a chronological order for the sake of simplicity.
The first one titled Fremont Gold is from 2018. Due to difficult personal scenarios, many parts of this trip were miserable but this late December afternoon, shivering by the river, was a welcome respite from the misery.
This one titled Step Into the Light is from 2020. This was my fifth trip to Utah but the first time during the Fall season. It was my first solo visit to Utah as well which meant there was no fixed itinerary or time table, thus making it the best kind.
This image, titled Dance With Me, is my personal favourite from this trip. The easy access from the roadside pullout brought me such joy every time I drove past this grouping of trees in the subsequent years. Alas, this year, I found that some of the trees have fallen.
From the same trip in 2020 came this image titled Canyon Possessed. I cannot say how far images go but touching canyon walls in person is a strong, strange feeling, and something I look forward to on every visit.
It took me another two years to witness the glory of cottonwoods in Spring. Here is one from my first Spring visit in 2022 titled 9 AM Light.
Though I have driven through Cathedral Valley thrice before, I camped up there for the first time in 2022 for three days. Here is one image titled Idle Afternoons.
The next few images are from this summer of 2023. Part of the trip was solo and part of it was in the company of good friends and passionate photographers- Eric Erlenbusch (@lausivee) and Prajit Ravindran (@irockutah). All the following images were made while exploring some new (to us) locations with Eric and Prajit. Though ‘three is a crowd’, it did not feel like that for once. Both of them are eccentric and serious in their own ways and helped me learn by observing their approach to making images.
Afternoon Amble– one from our very slow, never tedious, walk in a canyon.
Varnish Drip– the varnish on this canyon almost resembles petroglyphs.
How Is This Possible?– this is what I was thinking (and possibly Eric too) as we came across this scene.
Musings from North country 