Hemingway's Typewriter

Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961) was an American novelist, short-story writer, and journalist. In 1953, he won the Nobel Prize for "The Old Man and the Sea." Unquestionably, Ernest Hemingway was antisemitic. Throughout his letters, he makes nasty remarks about Jews. But Hemingway felt his prejudice had a place in his fiction as well, most notably in "The Sun Also Rises," his classic 1925 novel about a group of Paris expatriates at the bullfights in Pamplona. He was a product of his generation’s white supremacy, casual (accepted) racism, and bigotry.

Whatever you think about Hemingway, he was a talented writer and had a big impact on novels and writing. In a way, he created a genre. I studied and read his work in undergraduate school. While it was intriguing and engaging, it was littered with machismo and patriarchy, along with antisemitism, racism, and generally chauvinistic views. Some of it was relevant to the stories and characters, but most of it was connected to the time period. Hemingway was part of the “Silent Generation.”

In my new work, I write about him and his suicide in Ketchum, Idaho. It’s relevant because I ended up at his grave site in 1995. I made a Polaroid portrait as I sat on his grave, next to a dozen yellow dead roses that were there. You can read about it in my book (which will be published next year) if you’re interested. Although this Polaroid wasn’t in my exhibition (it was two years later), it made me think about my use of color photography back then and how it’s made a reappearance in this work.

It’s always a struggle for me to separate the artist from their ideologies. Hemingway fits perfectly into that dilemma. Martin Heidegger is another example: a profound philosopher who was a nazi. I struggle with this. However, I digress. That discussion is for another time.

Often, when the topic of making pictures comes up, some of the first questions are, "What process did you use?" or, “What kind of lens or camera did you use?" I always refer to Hemingway. Let me explain what I mean.

There is an important element to what materials or process(es) you use to make art. No doubt. I’ve written about this before and expressed my views clearly. They’re important for reasons, not for importance's sake alone. In other words, I don’t think you’ll hit your mark simply by riding on a process or a piece of equipment.

The materials, equipment, or process(es) need to support the work, not the other way around. If you’re making pictures in a process for the process’ sake, I think you may be missing the point. It’s like stringing a bunch of letters in a line because they look good, not because they communicate something or give context to the work (they can still look good and support or communicate an idea). My point is, I don’t know of anyone who’s ever asked what kind of typewriter Hemingway used to write "The Old Man and the Sea." Does it matter? Was it a Corona? Underwood? What difference would it make? Full disclosure: After Hemingway’s death, people wanted to know more about him, and they published what kind of typewriter he liked. This was in a very different context than what I’m referring to.

Give these ideas some thought. What are your choices, or the motivation behind your choices, when making pictures? Can you defend why you’ve chosen the materials, equipment, and process(es) you’re using?

Summary of My Project: In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering

DEATH ANXIETY & THE DENIAL OF DEATH
This project has a level of complexity in communicating what it is, what it’s about, and the objective of the work. It is very complex in one sense and, in another, very simple and straightforward. It’s simply expounding on theories of human behavior (Becker et al.) that affect all of us and the implications of them. I would sum up the objective of the work using Carl Jung’s idea of making the unconscious conscious. That’s what I would like to have happen: The average person would be able to accommodate and assimilate these ideas and understand their universal implications.

From the book, “The Worm at the Core: The Role of Death in Life,” by Sheldon Solomon, Jeff Greenberg, and Tom Pyszczynski. This is a great book. I encourage you to read it.

This is what I've written as a short description of the project. I would like to hear your feedback if you're willing to share. Does it make sense? Do you think you understand the work or the goals of the project? Do you feel that you have a basic understanding of the theories I'm working with?

SUMMARY STATEMENT OF THE WORK
Drawing inspiration from the seminal work of cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker, my book, "In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering" (2024), aims to challenge the dominant cultural narratives that deny the reality of death and the ways in which this denial contributes to the oppression and eradication of marginalized cultures, specifically the Tabeguache-Ute of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. By embracing Becker's insights into terror management theory and the role of death anxiety in shaping human behavior, this project seeks to provoke reflection and dialogue about the urgent need to come to terms with our mortality and its implications for our relationships with one another and the planet.

Are You Doing Too Much or Not Enough?

I recently had a conversation with someone about the ubiquity and nature of photography. We talked about how a creative person working in photography can approach making meaningful and significant work and what effect all of these changes since its invention have had on the medium.

We discussed how technology has changed photography and the impact "commonness" has had on the craft—some call this the "democratization" of photography, which I think is a fair statement, but it's had a significant impact both times it's happened. It has altered how we perceive photographs (and their worth) and how creative people work with the medium. The first wave came in 1900 with the Kodak Brownie ("You Press the Button, We Do the Rest"), and the second came in the early 2000s with the advent of consumer-model digital cameras and iPhones (2007).

The conversation went on about different approaches to making art and why some are more effective than others. And we briefly touched on the AI (artificial intelligence) models creating "wet collodion" images from text prompts; there's not much to say about this topic in my opinion.

I’ll give you a brief overview of how the conversation unfolded.

There’s a balance to making art, specifically in photography. Using photography today can lead a person down a path of "thumb-twiddling," especially now with digital image making, which is instant and easy. It can happen with film or historic processes as well. The latter happens in a different way, but it has the same result: vagueness and meaninglessness.

What I mean is that you can meander aimlessly (and easily) into never making anything with substance or weight. You photograph anything and everything with no intention other than the hope that it appeals to someone, somewhere, or you copy what you’ve seen. You have nothing to say about it and nothing to connect it to (no purpose or a very vague purpose). It’s just there, on its own, with no defense and nothing to offer but what the viewer brings to it. It’s mechanical in the truest sense of the word. This is what Baudelaire warned us about so long ago. He was right; he’s always been right.

You can also fool yourself into thinking that you’re making deep, meaningful work when you’re not. The “art talk” in statements leaves the reader confused with what the vague or derivative work is intended to evoke—no one knows, not even the writer of the statement or maker of the images. The intention is to fool the viewer. The statement might read something like this: “Ever since I was a pre-adolescent, I have been fascinated by the endless, ephemeral oscillations of the mind. What starts out as contemplation soon becomes corrupted into a hegemony of defeat, leaving only a sense of unreality and the chance of a new understanding.” What?? This is why the layperson is turned off when it comes to art, artists, and galleries. If they could see how shallow and fake this stuff is, they might reconsider. No one ever talks about the emporor having no clothes; everyone seems to play along.

In essence, you hope the viewer will see something you didn't or understand something you don’t. You hope, through their life filters, they see "something" and make a connection with it. In reality, you’ve created nothing. You’ve expressed nothing. You’re not in control. You’re a machine that’s regurgitating photographs that you’ve seen before. Trying to gain self-esteem by riding the coattails of something that’s been done a thousand times—I know that plenty of people can write dissertations on the validity of this approach to making photographs; I’ve read a lot of them, but they've never justified the blind ambition and aimlessness of working in such a superficial, meaningless way. Never.

When people do this with historic processes or film photography, they concentrate on processes, techniques (process photography), and gear. It’s always about the process, technique, or gear—never about the content of the photograph or what it’s authentically connected to. In some cases, they may try to argue that it's related to something, but it's always vague (see statement above), and the process or gear takes precedence. We have social media to blame for a lot of this. The high "wow-factor" is what gets people to look and "like." And people are always up for learning something for free and then emulating or copying it if it’s popular enough. If they can commodify it, even better.

It seems we are constantly seeking outside validation for our work. We’re always trying to bolster our self-esteem. We want accolades, awards, "wins," and acknowledgement of our creative and technical skills. And we want other people to know what we’ve achieved. In essence, we want to rise above and be the "one in creation," as Becker said. We rarely, if ever, consider our own validation about what we’re doing and why. The existential anxiety would be minimized if we could understand the value of our work without seeking external validation—without hovering around narcissism and navel-gazing. I think this comes from gratitude: truly appreciating what you've made, the reasons you've made it, and the ability to understand its place in the world. Facing the reality of your life and why you do what you do—if we could stop the denying and self-deception, we could see a clear path to why we are the way we are.

That’s where we’re at. When I ask the question, "Are you doing too much or not enough?" The answer is "yes." If you’re doing this, you’re doing both too much and not enough. Too much influence from outside of you (social media, trends, etc.) and not enough self-examination and contemplation—authentically exploring what you’re passionate about and want to share—and forget the standards of success (social media popularity, money, articles, interviews); they are meaningless if you’re not really connected to the work.

The conversation ended with me conceding everything I was ranting about. In the end, it’s all meaningless, so I suppose one could make the argument that doing whatever distracts from reality or buffers the anxiety should be valid. It’s a coping mechanism. And if you pressed me, I would agree. Since none of it matters, it’s all valid, at least in the big picture (no pun intended). My point is that if you’re finding your buffer through "thumb-twiddling" digital work or photography gear and processes and you’re not hurting anyone, go for it! That’s how I ended the conversation. They understood what I meant.

After having this dialogue, I realized that it connected so beautifully to the work on death anxiety that I’ve been doing. It’s literally a metaphor for our lives. It describes how we need to create meaning and significance in order to live from day to day or even get up in the morning. Without meaning and significance or building self-esteem, we wither—we get depressed, we lose hope, and we fall into despair. This creation of meaning, in whatever form, is vital to our well-being.

And, unconsciously, we all know that what we do is meaningless—everything we do—but we just can’t face it. I know it sounds harsh and negative, but it’s the truth. This is what the Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe made clear about consciousness: the knowledge of our death and the impermanence and insignificance of life is a terrible burden to bear. Making art is used in what he calls "sublimation." It’s used as a distraction, or more accurately, as a transference object. Our existential anxiety is projected (transferred) onto the art. It makes so much sense to me. While I’m no different than anyone else, I do understand my predicament, or my paradoxical condition, if you will. Art allows me to intellectualize my impending death. In a lot of ways, it allows me to come to terms with it. Everything you just read here is sublimation, and everything I create is sublimation. I’m resolved to face that, and I think we would all be better off if everyone could do the same.

"If someone can prove me wrong and show me my mistake in any thought or action, I shall gladly change. I seek the truth, which never harmed anyone; the harm is to persist in one's own self-deception and ignorance." ~ Marcus Aurelius

Visions In Mortality - 1993

I just finished writing about my first photographic exhibition in the biography portion of my book (Chapter 2, The Introduction). After careful consideration, I felt it was important to give my background on these theories and ideas in the context of what I'm doing now. It makes so much sense to me now. There is some kind of closure that I feel after all of these years making art about the fear of death and the human behaviors that result from it. I wouldn’t say that I was working blindly or aimlessly all those years; it was more like I was trying to express ideas that I had no concept of explaining with words. It was the intellectual part that was missing. That’s all changed now. I understand what I was doing, and it all fits together beautifully. I am beyond grateful for that.

Over 30 years ago, I was making work about the same things I’m making work about today. The difference is that I’m so much more mature (artistically speaking) and feel like I have a good grasp on these concepts and how to articulate what concerns me. I wrote about my exhibition called "Visions in Mortality." This body of work was exhibited for a few weeks in 1993 as my senior thesis project for undergraduate school.

The images were all manipulated Polaroid work (direct color positives) and poetry. Each image was accompanied by a short poem or passage. I was very influenced by Lucas Samaras and Charles Bukowski at the time. The overall theme was what I’ve always made work about: death anxiety and the knowledge of our mortality. However, as you can see from the statement below, I was venturing into the defense mechanisms that I'm writing about today concerning the denial of death.

In my book, I wrote about four of the 25 or so images from the show. “Clotheshorse,” “Coitus on a Sea of Blue,” “Ketchum, Idaho,” and this one, "Ode to Vincent van Gogh.” This is a self-portrait. I was 29 years old. The image came about by accident while moving the chemistry around during development—the lower portion of my ear was gone. After seeing it emerge, I immediately thought about the painting of Vincent van Gogh—the self-portrait with his bandage and cap—and the self-mutilation and suicide. And the Yellow House.

On the 23rd of December 1888, in a small house in Arles, in the south of France, one of the most famous artists of all time—Vincent van Gogh—feverishly cut off his own ear in a mysterious act of self-mutilation. The circumstances in which van Gogh cut off his ear are not exactly known, but many experts believe that it was following a furious argument with Paul Gauguin at the Yellow House. Afterwards, van Gogh allegedly packaged up the ear and gave it to a prostitute in a nearby brothel—that wasn’t true; he gave it to a cleaning lady. He was then admitted to a hospital in Arles, France. He died by suicide about 18 months later, on July 29, 1890.

Mental illness has been a long preoccupation of mine—all human behavior, really. I’ve always wondered, just like any marginalized community, why these afflictions happen. I feel like I have some answers now, and while they are not definitive or absolute, they do point me in the right direction for why these kinds of things happen to people. I address suicide in my "Ketchum, Idaho” image as well. It’s a self-portrait sitting on the grave of Ernest Hemingway. These questions have always been present in my work.

Here’s my artist’s statement from the show in 1993—this is verbatim:

“Visions in Mortality”
This project deals with the reality of life, which is death, both visually and textually. This project is meant to communicate the intense and complicated process of life and our struggle with mortality as we approach death.

Whether life is short or long, it inevitably consists of much pain, suffering, depression, hurt, confusion, boredom, and misery, with only a “sprinkle” now and then of happiness, joy, love, peace, honor, and understanding. So many people are on the futile quest to attain happiness and understanding through physical, materialistic, and intellectual means that they neglect to realize their failure and ultimately find themselves in a “mortality crisis.”

This project deals with both the long term “reality” of life and few and far between “sprinkles” of the good stuff. It represents what I and many others see, feel, and experience as the human race.

Overall, this imagery communicates that both life and death are frightening, beautiful, and mysterious conditions.

Winter Activities: Reading, Writing, and Research

It’s really exciting for me to be able to find connections between psychology, anthropology, philosophy, and my work. I dig deep for them, but when I find them, it’s like a big, bright light illuminating my way. To blend the social sciences and art seems like a stretch, but you’d be surprised how related and relevant it is. It fits well together in the right context.

Reading, writing, and research are what I’m mostly doing over the winter. I will make a few images, but I live in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and at almost 9,000 feet above sea level, it gets cold and snowy here. However, we do have some really nice sunny days in between the storms. I’ll try to take advantage of those when I can.

Most of my day is spent writing the text for my book and laying out the chapters for it. I can see it’s going to be a big job organizing the writing. Right now, I have a rough draft of what the direction will be, and I have most of the introduction written. I continue to edit and rewrite my artist’s statement, too. As the project evolves and becomes clearer, I can articulate the main points better. I have a lot of the psychology and philosophical anthropology written. The organization of that will be the big challenge. I don’t want the book to be a non-pharmacological intervention for insomnia. I want it to be easily consumed and understood. A big challenge for sure, but I’m up to it and very excited to do it.

The book, right now, looks like this:
Foreword
Chapter 1: Artist’s Statement
Chapter 2: Introduction
Chapter 3: Death Anxiety
Chapter 4: Terror Management Theory
Chapter 5: The Photographs
Chapter 6: Essays
Afterword

I’m reading and re-reading these books over the winter. These books have taught me so much about psychology, anthropology, and philosophy. They make up the vast majority of references for my book. I highly recommend reading them if you haven’t.

The Same Thing, Over And Over Again...

"Illuminated Sunflower" from my project, "In the Shadow of Sun Mountain". A whole plate, toned cyanotype print from a wet collodion negative.

I’m writing this in response to my image, “Illuminated Sunflower,” that I posted yesterday. Here are some of the comments/responses:
“It’s strange looking but familiar.”
“Is it real?”
“I’ve never seen a sunflower that looks like that.”
“How did you do that?”
”Is it manipulated?”

MY RANT
Have you noticed that, as photographers or artists, we tend to follow what’s “accepted” and recognizable in photography? In other words, we make the same images that we’ve seen a million times over and over again. It’s almost like we’re in a trance or robotic. We have a very difficult time doing anything else.

These images are everywhere out there. Go to any “fine art photography” group online and you’ll see that 90%+ of the pictures are easily recognizable—same content, just a different photographer.

You’ll see old barns in empty fields and abandoned places (usually a farm or an old warehouse). Autumn leaves in a bowl or just on the ground. Foggy, misty landscape scenes. And any kind of flower in a vase. How about an old piece of farm equipment (tractors, old trucks, etc.)? National parks are always in the mix—a large format photograph of any recognizable landscape, especially anything from Yosemite National Park. I call these images “sunset and driftwood pictures”. Most of the pictures are (manipulated) digital images, or in some groups, there will be a few large format black and white film pictures that are scanned and made into digital prints. And some even make silver gelatin prints. But the numbers are going down fast. Regardless of the process, the content will be the same.

Before you send me a nasty email, let me say that there’s nothing wrong with doing any of that type of work! Obviously, the masses love it. It sells pictures, no doubt, and if that’s your hustle, more power to you. But creatively, I feel like these types of photographs fall short—way short. I feel like I’m listening to a broken record, playing the same part over and over again. Nothing new. It feels like visual torture to me sometimes. And it’s derivative.

We are conditioned to respond to familiar things. I get it. It’s kind of like, “Oh! I recognize that and I know people think it’s important, so I like it too!”. Those kinds of feelings and responses are embedded in photographers’ minds—so they keep making pictures that people will recognize and like. Commercial photographers are bound by this obligation. They need to sell pictures. As fine artists, we’re not bound to this way of working or thinking. In fact, we should reject it completely.

How do we do that? In my mind, there are three ways to accomplish this. The first is unique content—what’s in the picture. This can also include the context of the image. Your narrative can support something that’s been seen before if it’s a meaningful part of the story. Second, is the way the image is made (what process). And third, how you produce the image/print (post-production printing).

I know that influence is incessant; we really can’t get away from it. We bring everything we know and have seen to the image we’re making. And it’s very difficult to “pass” on the obvious, recognizable image. I think this is where experimentation and exploration can pay big creative dividends. Get out of the habit of only making pictures in “good” light or only composing in the way that you’ve seen. Try new things and break the rules. Play with optics, processes, and even post-production stuff (again, I’m talking about printing here). Do your best to make images of scenes or objects that you would never normally photograph. Then, play with the way you make them. If you’re lucky, you’ll discover a new way to work that supports your story, and the pictures will be interesting to look at! You’ll discover ways to see things that you’ve never really seen before.

Otto Rank said, “What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.” I believe that. Art can be a powerful way for you to experience and understand life. It can give you a way to tackle the big questions in life and find meaning and purpose. E.O. Wilson came up with a word in the 1980s. “Biophilia” (it’s a book actually), which means “the love of life”. I do my best every day to be grateful, humble, and love life as much as I can.

“A River of Wood”—a cyanotype print on Canson Vellum (Tracing) paper.

“A River of Wood”—a Palladiotype print for reference—from the wet collodion negative posted here.

Three sheets of paper in an iodizing bath. These will become calotypes (paper negatives). This is the first step.

Three sheets of freshly iodized paper. These will become calotypes (paper negatives). I usually iodize six sheets at a time.

Synthesized Artist Statement

I hope you read my “exhaustive” statement last week. It’s what I call my “personal” or “internal” statement. A working statement, written for me to read and think about. It’s the first time I’ve ever shared that kind of thing. I’m trying to allow people that are interested, to learn about my process of making a body of work. And the artist’s statement is the cornerstone of the narrative or story.

This is my “viewer’s” statement (below). The first draft, anyway. It’s synthesized, condensed, and easy to read. It still makes all of the points I want to make about the work but leaves some mystery in it. I want the photographs to “fill in the blanks” and make sense based on these words.

This is my statement for “In the Shadow of Sun Mountain”.

(Post Script: Drex Brooks was one of my undergraduate professors at Weber State University. He was working on this book when I was in the photo program there. It greatly influenced me.)

In The Shadow of Sun Mountain (Tava Kaavi)

“By taking this land for granted, we’ve anesthetized ourselves to history…we live in a state of blunted feeling, capable of cheerful indifference when we visit land once steeped in human agony. Contemplating this indifference can be, at first, infuriating. Americans ought to know what acts of violence brought them their right to own land, build homes, use resources, and travel freely in North America. Americans ought to know what happened on the ground they stand on; they surely have some obligation to know where they are”.

In the book, “Sweet Medicine” by Drex Brooks, 1995.

I live in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado - just west of Sun Mountain (Tava). I live on the land where the Ute/Tabeguache spent their summer months for hundreds of years before the white man came to this continent.

These photographs represent a profound feeling that’s rooted in the land and the past. They represent how it feels to live on this land and my relationship to the history of this place.

Every image contains something that is symbolic of the past and present. Every image shows the beauty and horror of the past and present, too. They show my struggle with all of it. And I’ve connected all of it through the materials and processes that I used to make the photographs.

There’s a part of me that’s in conflict with this land. Its history weighs on me. I’ve made these images to address these conflicts in some psychological way. Through making the work, I’ve tried to resolve some of the questions that burden me.

When people see these photographs, and learn about why they were made, I hope it will remind them about what happened here. I want them to feel the loss, appreciate the beauty, and to understand their obligation to never let these kinds of things happen again.

In the Shadow of Sun Mountain (Tava Kaavi)

“The key to the creative type is that he is separated out of the common pool of shared meanings. There is something in his life experience that makes him take in the world as a problem; as a result, he has to make personal sense out of it.”

― Ernest Becker, from the Denial of Death

I was born in Utah (U.S.A.). It was named after the Ute people. The Nuuchu, or “Mountain People” occupied most of Utah and Colorado for centuries, long before the Europeans arrived on this continent. 

I currently live in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. It’s beautiful here. The landscape is breathtaking. It’s the closest thing to a perfect place I’ve ever been. However, it has a very sordid and sad history. 

Most Americans live their day-to-day lives without ever thinking about the real history of their country. Topics like genocide, land dispossession, forced migration, and colonization are rarely discussed, if ever. Every day I go outside and I’m reminded of this land’s past and the people that lived here. For me, it’s unavoidable.

Through these photographs, I want to share both the beauty and the tragedy of this place I call home. I want to esteem the Ute people both past and present. And I hope to engage the viewer long enough to put this history and the people into their consciousness. Ken Burns said, “Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous.”

RED MOTHER EARTH - WHERE THE PEOPLE OF SUN MOUNTAIN LIVED
A Whole Plate Palladiotype print from a Calotype (paper) negative.

I’ve approached this work from a place of deference, wonder, sadness, and loss. I’m torn about where I live and what I know. I often think about what happened here and question why it did. It confuses me and creates inner conflict for me; like a type of cognitive dissonance. I struggle with living on this land, and yet I’m in awe every day of how sublime and beautiful it is here.

What do I do with this terrible history? My answer is to embrace it, study it, wrestle with it and transform it into a weapon for the human spirit; one that will enlarge my sense of responsibility and strengthen my moral resolve.

This project has also served as a cathartic release for me. It’s one of the biggest reasons why the work was created. While the work is metaphorical, it acts as a catalyst in resolving my relationship with the land, its history, and the people that lived here. Telling some of their stories through my images gave me a better understanding of who I am in relation to this place and its history and people.

At dawn, Tava-Kaavi (Sun Mountain) is the first Colorado mountain to catch the sun’s rays. The mountain is over 14,000 (4.300m) feet above sea level. The Ute believes it’s where Mother Earth meets Father Sky.

Before it was America’s Mountain, “Pikes Peak” (its colonized name), it stood at the center of the Tabeguache (tab-a-watch) band of the Nuche/Ute tribe’s geography and identity. They were the “People of the Sun Mountain,” placed here by Sunif (the wolf) to grow and flourish amid the foothills of the majestic peak.

The Tabeguache tribe was the largest of the ten nomadic bands of the Ute. They followed the herds of wild animals throughout their lands, harvesting the elk, deer, and buffalo at specific places at certain times of the year. This lifestyle mandated that they move their camp every three or four weeks. They constructed a medicine wheel at the heart of each new camp, linking them to Mother Earth like an umbilical cord. The rock outcroppings were called, “the bones of Mother Earth”. And the large red rock formations were considered “grandfathers.”

WILLOW TREES - FREMONT COUNTY, COLORADO
Crack willow (salix fragilis)! Willow bark was steeped as a tea by Native Americans, and the young twigs and bark were chewed to relieve headaches. It was later found the active ingredient was salicylic acid, the basis of today's aspirin. The chemical name for aspirin comes from the willow family name, Salicaceae.

A Whole Plate Palladiotype print from a Calotype (paper) negative.

I live in one of the areas where the Tabeguache tribe lived during the summer months. My photographs are about coming to terms with my relationship with the land, the people, and its history. I want to honor the people, the plants they used, the rocks, and the trees they dwelt among and used to survive and thrive for many centuries. I’ve spent time learning about the symbolism and metaphors they used and I’ve constructed photographs based on historical and contemporary uses of these ideas and beliefs.

The work is made with the 19th-century wet and dry collodion photographic processes as well as the Calotype process (paper negatives) in the Whole Plate format (6.5” x 8.5”). I used a period lens circa 1870 for the work. From the glass and paper negatives, I’ve made Palladiotype prints (Palladium), 1873, and original Kallitype prints (1889). Both are contact printing processes. It was very important for me to use period processes and period gear for these images. The processes and optics have a way of transporting the viewer to that time period (the 1840s - 1890s). 

I called this body of work, “In the Shadow of Sun Mountain”. The photographs are all made with the great mountain watching over.

The Ute honored and respected this land and all of its life, never taking more than they needed. The fauna, flora, and landscape represent all that they loved. It provided the shelter, food, and medicine they survived on. Their life here was balanced and good.

Ben Mitchell, guest curator of "Edward S. Curtis: The North American Indian" said "...history is a very powerful force, because history, when you’re immersed in it, isn’t just looking at the past, history constantly informs the present you’re living in — or it better, if we’re paying attention...history also points us to our future that we’re going to share. We learn from history how to live in our present, and how to plan to live in our future.”

I can’t change the past. No one can. But my hope is that the viewers of this work will see the beauty and the tragedy. I want the photographs to reflect the memories of a better time and wrestle with the history and terrible events that followed. My goal is to put a “pebble in the viewer’s shoe”. I want them to contemplate the past, the present, and the future. I hope to inspire, motivate and create compassion and empathy for the people, the land, and all the life on it.

“Art is crucial for transforming death and pain into forms that can in some way enhance the life that remains.” 

Robert Jay Lifton

WHITE POPPY

Native Americans found many uses for the alkaloids in the white poppy. Preparations made from different poppy species have been used to treat skin disorders, eye problems, headaches, toothaches, digestive trouble, coughs, colds, and insomnia.

A Whole Plate Palladiotype print from a Calotype (paper) negative.

AKV | St. Joost Art School - Breda, The Netherlands

Recently, I had the opportunity to present my work and do a Wet Plate Collodion demonstration (I call them performative lectures) at AKV | St. Joost Art School in Breda, The Netherlands. 

Quinn talks about the details of the historic photographic processes. Photo by Philippe Moroux

Bruno, the sitter, listens as Quinn explains what will happen. Photo by Philippe Moroux

Bruno's plate ready for the fix. Photo by Philippe Moroux

Varnishing Bruno's plate. This is a 16cm x 16cm Black Glass Ambrotype. Photo by Philippe Moroux

Students and guests watch as Quinn shows the process and talks about his work. Photo by Philippe Moroux

Quinn varnishes a plate of a sitter with tattoos. This is a 16cm x 16cm Black Glass Ambrotype. Photo by Philippe Moroux 8" x 8" (20cm x 20cm) Black Glass Ambrotype.

"Wait! I thought you were leaving Europe, Quinn?"

I'm trying! There's been confusion about when I'm leaving Europe (because of what I've said/posted). To tell you the truth, I thought I would have been gone by now. I'm not.

The process of leaving is like a roller coaster. One day, everything is in place and the next day it's all changed. It's not quite working as smoothly or as fast as I thought it would, so I'm still here. At least for a little while longer.

It's very complicated to explain, but it has to do with the economy, my own desires and hopes for what I want next and patience. So, for right now, I'm going to resume living and do what I do best. Life's too short to put it on hold.

Artist's Statement via Video

I've been meaning to post the work I did in 2005 for a very long time. I made this video for graduate school. Not many people have seen it. It's a 20 minute video that explains who I am, what I do and why. You could call it an artist's statement, but it's a lot more than that. For me, it covers both context and intention. The two most important ingredients for an artist. If you invest 20 minutes of your time, you will learn why I make photographs and what drives me to make art.

In these videos, I talk about where I grew up, what I saw, who I was around and some of the questions that came from my youth and the people I knew then. To sum it up, it's about the questions that I never had answered about people who are different. It's about how we define "different" and how "different" should be viewed.

In the video, I interview some of my sitters. I let them answer some basic questions about themselves and the project. Some of the material is for mature audiences - please be aware of that before you watch them. Some of the content could be very disturbing for some viewers.

Please remember, this is not documentary work, this is art, my personal expression, my opinion, my questions, etc.  There is no need to email me about exploiting people or "crossing the line". These images, interviews and concepts belong to me and the people who chose to help me explore them. The people in these videos are my friends. In fact, I consider them my family in a lot of ways. They are kindred spirits.

"Those who know how to look will learn from his clear and powerful photographs, and will discover more about themselves and more about others."
Writer Alfred Döblin commenting on August Sanders’ work.

A 20 minute video about Quinn's background, process and interview with a couple of his sitters.