Find the whole series here.

My grandparents used to live in Nebraska. They’ve since relocated, so now what remains of their old house to me is a patchwork of moments stitched across multiple visits. A lunch at the countertop. Launching bottle rockets in the driveway. As pleasant as they are, none of these moments last more than a few seconds. The mind wanders and memories fade.

In the middle of all these moments is a tree, the one that grew in their backyard. I don’t remember the type of tree or how long it had been there. All I needed to know as a fidgety child was that it grew at a forty-five degree angle, making it irresistible to climb.

I would often climb as high as the branches (and my nervous relatives) would allow and just sit there. Nothing to do but dangle feet off the trunk and watch the leaves in the wind. It’s amazing what a little elevation can do to mellow out a skittish boy. I don’t have the self-regard to say this was a “revelation”, but I do believe that my time in that tree allowed me to understand something about what the natural world is and what it can be if given the chance to interact with it.

As I grew into my passion for photography, my first real subjects were trees. I’m not a scientist, and I don’t think I can consider myself outdoorsy - certainly not compared to some of the other photographers you can find. However, since that tree in Nebraska, I’ve been dying to know what trees are up to. How do they move? How do they grow? How do they react to their surroundings and “understand” the world as we as humans influence it?

This five-part series is a reflection on what I’ve noticed and perhaps “learned” from photographing different trees. This series will not consist of practical tips, but it won’t be sarcastically counter-intuitive either. Whatever it becomes, I invite you down this trail with me for no other reason than to see something of our world as it appeared to someone who is grateful for the bewilderment it causes.

Part one can be found below, and the rest will be released starting in January 2024. If you’re a supporter on Patreon, you will not be charged during the hiatus.

Thank you in advance for your time, and happy holidays.

One

Stare

The sun was setting, and the light was beginning to change. I’d spent the afternoon walking around the grounds of the house we were staying in. The property keepers took care to lay interlocking trails all around the house; I’d hardly made a dent in the available routes.

We were staying on Orcas Island at the end of July. Warm days in the Pacific Northwest feel fragile. Even in the thick haze of the salty summer, the area feels moments away from a brutal winter. You take the warm days like you’re building a house of cards. As each day with a high above 77 degrees passes, you’re adding another card to the shaky structure. Before long, the amount of days accumulated doesn’t matter as much because a low forties/high fifties with 100% chance of rain will be coming along any time now to bump the table.

I thought I’d done it and broken the weather system when I brushed up against a tree and accidentally scraped away a loose film of dead bark. The sensation felt almost regular. I’ve hiked enough that bumping into trees and getting passively fondled by their branches hardly disturbs my train of thought. I wouldn’t have froze like I did if it wasn’t for the sound I heard as I made contact. I thought I’d ruined a poor bird’s nest because it sounded like egg shells cracking. After a split-second of worry, I turned back and saw the tree I just maneuvered under, and the damage I’d caused.

This was one of those moments where I had to make another mental entry in the “times it was revealed I actually know very little” log. I’d never seen a tree shed before. I don’t know what I thought tree bark was, but I never thought of it as analogous to skin. At first glance, it looks wrong. Sickly. Like a morbid curiosity with an infection, you can’t help but wonder about what the heck is causing it.

By then, the summer sun had drooped a bit lower and the light turned from an off-white to a truer yellow. I began to understand the processes at work behind this tree’s bizarre look. It’s entirely natural, like a snake shedding its skin. The fraying bark had a reddish tint that began to match the wood panels of the house in the background. They appeared connected, like the foundation of the house was connected to the roots of the tree.

After seeing that relationship, the photograph was easy to make. Like how knuckles crack after forgetting about them for an hour or two, it just happened without buildup or tension. Normally, I need to review my work in post before I determine whether I like what I’ve made, but after this moment, I realized I made something I greatly enjoyed.

Photographing anything starts (unfortunately) with understanding a visual representation of the subject. It is unfortunate because this is an inherently unachievable task. Put another way, how would you describe what a tree looks like? Even as I write this, putting that question into written words seems trivial and rude. What does a tree look like? What does anything look like? Go ask your grandmother what she looks like. Let’s ask those blind men to investigate when they’re done with the elephant. It’s invasive and futile, so the purpose of asking that question is not to harvest an answer, but instead to permit yourself not to answer it. There is creative freedom in that refusal.

Even if there was an answer to that question, it’s not universally applicable because photographing a tree is photographing an identity. Like us, they are entities that have encountered obstacles and opportunities, abundance and scarcity, loss from circumstance and growth from desperation. No two are alike, and that gives them infinite variety as artistic subjects. Perfectly comprehendible yet somehow conceptually unknowable. There is no one answer, and there never was. What a challenge. What a privilege.

Thank you for your time.

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