I made a new tintype today—something small, simple, and unexpectedly revealing. It began as a response to reading Yalom’s Staring at the Sun. I sculpted a tiny figure and a rough, spiked “sun” and set them up in the studio to explore that familiar tension between awe, fear, and the search for meaning.
But once the plate dried, the image took on a different life. The “sun” started to resemble a virus, and the little figure looked like he was trying to negotiate with a force he couldn’t quite name. It shifted the whole feeling of the piece. It’s strange when a photograph teaches you something you didn’t intend, but that’s usually a sign you’re on the right track.
The chemistry added its own voice too. I shot it wide open with an 1872 Dallmeyer 3B lens, using natural New Mexico light. Because the developer had no alcohol in it, the plate is full of sweeping, ghostlike marks—patterns that feel like turbulence or weather. Those imperfections have become one of the things I trust most about collodion. They reveal the atmosphere of the moment in a way nothing else can.
This little setup feels like the start of a new thread in Glass Bones—a kind of still-life cosmology. Small figures, simple objects, big questions. I won’t say more yet, but I’m excited about where this can go. I’ll talk about my project, “Glass Bones,” soon as well.
More soon.