What is Conceptual Photography?

This question has been on my mind a lot lately. I’m not sure why. It must have something to do with my deconstruction of this work that I’m making now. I’m trying to find ways to describe it that mean something sensible and accessible.

Is it a derogatory term (conceptual photography)? Does it imply that I think about making pictures and you don’t? What does it really mean? Are all photographs conceptual? Or are all photographs made impulsively? Can photography speak for itself? Are you an artist who deals with ideas, or are you a photographer who knows about your machine? How do you approach making photographs? Artist? Photographer?

Let me define how I understand conceptual photography. If you have an idea that you want to make a picture about, you’ve started the conceptual process. If you get into the weeds, you might even sketch out this idea on a piece of paper. It might contain elements that must be included, or, a certain way it must be lighted or composed. There may be important elements that aren’t seen in the actual image, too. Things like the place, time (a certain date for example), or other elements that aren’t known by looking at the photograph.

Every other morning, my wife and I go for a walk around the mountain. We live on top of a mesa - the loop we walk is about 2 miles. During that walk, usually, early in the morning, I have a chance to think. I hear the wildlife, I see the crows and horses and I go back in time, at least for an instant. And I can see Sun Mountain. I think about the Ute looking at the very scene I’m looking at. It’s profound at times. It moves me. The ideas about my photographs usually come to me during these walks, or they are solidified during that time. It’s almost a form of meditation for me.

In this project (In the Shadow of Sun Mountain), I’ve constructed images (see Medicine Wheel). That would be the classic definition of conceptual photography. I’ve also built a Ute Lodge or Wickiup. I’ve made some images of it, but none that I want to use. I’ll keep working on that one. I read as much as I can about the history of the Ute (Tabeguache band) that lived here. These readings usually produce an idea for an image.

“Medicine Wheel” Whole Plate Palladiotype from a wet collodion negative.

I’m interested in connecting the idea of the technical elements to the concept of the work. I want to elaborate, visually, on the historical events. This is difficult to do because the viewer can’t see that you’re using a period lens and creating work referencing that time period, as an example.

Concepts are ideas based on something definite or a set of abstract thoughts manifested in materials - in this case, photographs. By definition, all of my images are conceptual. I’m working within a certain framework to tell a story. I think the ultimate conceptual photographer of our time would be Joel Peter Witkin or maybe Gregory Crewdson. You should look at their work if you’re not familiar with them.

In theory, you could say that all commercial photography is conceptual. And you’d be correct, at least in the strictest of definitions. I think that personal art pictures diverge from those strict definitions and allow for some abstractness and mystery while staying within a certain narrative. Commercial photographs can never do that. They need to communicate one clear message - buy this! Fine art, or personal art, doesn’t function like that.

How do you make a picture? Most people, or photographers, “go out looking for something to photograph”. They literally hunt for images. While there is certainly nothing wrong with this, it’s the 180-degree (opposite) approach to conceptual photography. It’s true, you can “hunt” for images within a certain narrative, but you are still working from a conceptual point of view - at least to some degree.

“Medicine Wheel & Antlers” Plate #111 -Whole Plate Kallitype from a wet collodion negative.

I worked as a photojournalist for many years. I would literally hunt for photographs every day. I had nothing in mind, I would simply look for something interesting that would make a good feature picture. Or, if I had a specific assignment, I would look for ways to communicate the story idea in the picture. Of course, those were someone else’s stories, not mine. I have a book called, “The Great Picture Hunt” by Dave LaBelle. He worked at the same newspaper that I did. He was a great photographer. His book literally defines what I’m talking about here.

Making good pictures is very difficult. More difficult than most think. The words, “well observed” come to mind. For me, a good photograph is like a painting. If you study it, you can see if the maker is really observing and thinking, or randomly making pictures, and relying on “luck” (there is an element of serendipity that I embrace, just for the record). And then there’s derivative work. That seems to be prevalent in photography today. To be influenced is one thing, to copy is another.

I think a big part of making good pictures is making original work - your work. Even if people don’t like it or understand it, it’s your work. Don’t let social media and the number of followers or “likes” influence what you think is good. Work that you know supports your narrative, is good. Of course, be open to good constructive feedback, but don’t be swayed to change the work to be “accepted” or “popular”. That approach will be short-lived and you’ll regret it.

“Medicine Wheel #3” Whole Plate Palladiotype from a wet collodion negative.

When it comes to my photographs, I’m my toughest critic. There are certain elements that have to be in the image for me to like it or to include them in my story. I do my best to incorporate those elements or ideas, but most of the time they fail - I have about a 10% success rate in image making.

I try to spend a lot of time thinking about what will best support the narrative - the most powerful or interesting way to communicate an idea through a photograph. I try to stay away from the literal and work closer to the “implied” image. I like to suggest more than overstate. Or at least I try. I want to leave some room for poetry and mystery but still tell the story. I like how the painters of 300 - 500 years ago would embed little symbols or personal references in their paintings. Johannes Vermeer’s, “The Music Lesson” comes to mind. That’s always stayed with me. I think all of this rests on the conceptual side of image-making.

That’s my definition of conceptual photography. At least it’s how I view what I do, or how I work. In the end, titles and names are kind of meaningless unless we have a good grip on what we’re talking about. Sometimes, these exercises give us a vocabulary or a way to talk about things that we couldn’t articulate before.

I like to deconstruct things and find what’s at the core of them. The reasons, the motivation, etc. What makes human beings act the way they do? That’s what interests me the most. Making picture stories, as abstract as they may be, helps me find my center and my reason, and alludes to some answers about why we’re here and what we should be doing.

My current project isn’t a documentary about the Ute tribe, or about the Colorado landscape. It’s an investigation or exploration of human behavior - it represents the beauty and tragedy of humanity and place. It does have historical references, but it’s an examination of the landscape, plants, objects, and symbols that represent the people that lived here and the horrible events of the past. It is, in fact, conceptual and in a lot of ways abstract. I find myself at the center of the work. In other words, it’s my conflict with what happened here and reconciling my privilege of living here, and they’re not. That, for me, is a difficult thing to deal with.

My biggest concern is that people will conflate what I’m doing with “historical record”. It’s not that, at least not in the truest sense of the phrase. The purpose of this work is to open up a conversation about the way we treat people who are different from us - the way we “other” people. It’s the core of my work. And it always has been.

I need to make sure people who see this project when it’s finished, understand the context and know what my intentions were in making the photographs. I’m confident, that those who understand these ideas will find some value in the work. At least that’s my hope.

“Meadow Barley”, “Deer Antlers” and “Medicine Wheel” - “In the Shadow of Sun Mountain” -

How Will History View Our Work?

When I go through my photography books and look at all of the 19th and early 20th-century work, I wonder how people a hundred years from now will view our work.

Will anyone be here in a hundred years? That’s a valid question. It’s obvious to ask about your significance in a hundred or two hundred years is a question that’s steeped in death anxiety. It’s a way to live beyond our physical death. Deep down, we’re afraid that our life is meaningless and that we’re going to die and be forgotten. That is the crux of death anxiety.

I know that we all need to find meaning and feel significant in our lives. Those are important for surviving, even thriving, in this life. It’s what constitutes our self-esteem. Without our “immortality projects,” we would live in daily terror - it would be unbearable. It’s easy to see those that don’t find meaning and significance in life.

This question is irrelevant when you’re dead. I understand that, but, we’re living now and this question drives some of us to make the best work that we can. We want to live on in some way, even if we’re not here physically, we will be here through the work we make. I do find comfort in that. And I find meaning in it as well. I do want to contribute and make the world a better place - if that’s possible.

I appreciate and I’m grateful for the artists of the past that put the effort into creating work that can be seen today - painting, sculpture, music, writing, photography, all of it. I stand on their shoulders every time I expose an image - they are a constant influence and I’m humbled by their presence.

“White Horse, Teller County, Colorado” - Whole Plate bleached/toned Cyanotype print from a Calotype (waxed paper negative). This is my favorite print of the day. I feel like the distressed look supports how I feel here sometimes thinking about the history and the events. It’s kind of an emotional prod - I’m influenced by Joel Peter Witkin and how he used distressed negatives to make prints that you could “feel”.

I can say, with some certainty, that they had the same questions then as we do today. After all, we’re all human, not very different from one another in that respect. And we all know that one day, we’ll die. Albert Camus, an Algerian/French philosopher wrote, “There is only one liberty, to come to terms with death, thereafter anything is possible.” Making art is a great way to find that “liberty”.

If humans are still here in a hundred or two hundred years and can access work (photography or any art) that is being made today, what will they think? Will they like it? Will it mean anything to them? Will they understand it? I think they will if you, as the artist, provide information about what it is and why it was made. Give context and give intention. The more information, the better. Things change so much and without knowing what was going on when the work was made, puts it in a vacuum so to speak. It leaves the work without any cultural or environmental support. And without the words of the artist or maker, it falls short in meaning and significance.

Everything influences us - influence is incessant. If we make work about flowers or trees today, we’re still, in some way, being influenced by the wars, the economy, the politics, and the social strife of our time. We can never dismiss it and it will always be present in the work in some way. Whether we know it or not. Think about these influences. Examine why you’re doing what you’re doing and talk about it. Help people understand what they’re experiencing.

If you ever feel like your life is just a blip on the radar of cosmic meaning, and that you’ll die and be forgotten, make some art! Say something about your life, about who you are, and what you find meaningful. Maybe it will last far beyond your physical death and you’ll live on - your life will have meaning and you won’t be forgotten.

“Between a Rock and a Hard Place” - Whole Plate bleached/toned Cyanotype print from a Calotype (waxed paper negative). I made a print on some Canson Crob Art paper. It’s used for Albumen printing, it’s very thin paper. It held up well and produced a nice print. I’ll flatten this and it’ll look great!

The Utes Lived Here Every Summer

The Ute/Tabeguache lived in the valleys and mountains of central-western Colorado - the Rocky Mountains. They traveled here every summer to hunt and fish.

Tava (Sun Mountain) is just to the east of where I live. A very important place for the Ute. There are many valleys here where they set up camp and thrived. The area of the fossil beds, where I made the image today, was populated by the Ute every year.

The Utes were among the first Native Americans to acquire the horse as a means of transportation, and in rock writing the Utes are depicted as horses. After several armed conflicts with Mormon settlers in 1861, the Utes were relocated to the Uintah Basin in northeastern Utah. They turned the horse into one of their greatest assets. The horse allowed the Utes to travel farther and more quickly, and they began to adopt many aspects of Plains Indian culture, living in mobile tipis and hunting buffalo, elk, and deer over long distances. They first acquired horses from the Spanish in 1580. They viewed the horse as a sanctified blessing that should be protected at all times.

A valley where the Ute camped every year to hunt and fish. Whole Plate Calotype (paper negative). September 27, 2022.

This was a test to see if it was possible to make a paper negative of a living creature - I didn’t know what would happen. I was really surprised. I’ll be working toward a final image of a horse or horses for the project. Whole Plate Calotype (paper negative). September 27, 2022

Whole Plate Calotype (paper negative). September 27, 2022.

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.

Experimental Photography: The Importance of Exploring

I remember when I was in undergraduate school, I would take the most non-traditional photography classes I could find. I started doing this after I took one course that really affected me. It was called, “Experimental Photography” (see my actual transcript below). This course opened my eyes and heart to the possibility of making powerful images that break all of the “rules” in photography. Photographs that go way beyond the standard “chocolate box” photo or all of the digital “yawners” (film at that time). It was so lovely to get away from the traditional work and explore ideas and concepts that I hadn’t tried before. I learned so much from experiencing that, I have no words to describe how it changed my view of photography. This was the course that turned me onto Joel Peter Witkin. Watching him work and understanding why he did the things he did to the film made so much sense to me. It made the work transcend photography in a way. It became kind of a multimedia piece.

One of the biggest challenges you’ll face making a body of work is finding the “correct” aesthetic. Finding what process, or processes, support your narrative the best is beyond important. It’s absolutely crucial. We are VISUAL storytellers. The mood or emotion you set, rests entirely on the image (the way it looks).

You would miss the train if you were to randomly pick up any camera and start making photographs without thinking about what you wanted to say, and moreover, how you want to say it. I posted the “how” supporting the “why” the other day. If you haven’t read it, take a look. I so firmly believe this to be the driving force of a great body of work. Words can only go so far. We need what Donald Kuspit said in his book, “The End of Art”. He said, “…art is over because it has lost its aesthetic import. Art has been replaced by "postart," a term invented by Alan Kaprow, as a new visual category that elevates the banal over the enigmatic, the scatological over the sacred, cleverness over creativity.” How can you not agree with that. we need AESTHETIC IMPORT and ENIGMATIC work! This is what experimentation can give you.

“White Poppy” Whole Plate toned Cyanotype from a Calotype (Greenlaw). I bleached the print and used tannic acid and gallic acid to tone it. It did stain the paper, but I kind of like it. This is Strathmore Series 500 paper.

It’s a long process. Most experiments will fail. But you’ll learn a lot. And sometimes, while experimenting, you’ll stumble onto something that is perfect for what you’re exploring. You’ll know it when you see it. So get in the darkroom with some of your best negatives and start experimenting!

“They’re Coming With Crosses” Whole Plate Cyanotype from a wet collodion negative.

Plate #118, Whole Plate Palladiotype from a wet collodion negative.

The Calotype or Paper Negative

Calotype. The word is from the Greek words Kalos, “beautiful,” and tupos, “impression”. It’s the first photographic process invented and patented in 1841. Calotypes are paper negatives. The original process was invented by a British man called Henry Fox Talbot (1800-1877). It was the first negative-positive photographic process (meaning you could make positive photographic prints from the negative). It was the invention of photography.

Talbot began making his photographic prints on paper in 1834 at Laycock Abbey, England - in his ancestral mansion. Talbot wasn’t very well-liked in a lot of circles. He was protective of his process and charged a substantial amount of money to use it (license). If you tried to use his process without the proper credentials, he would sue you.

While I don’t use Talbot’s recipes or methodologies, what I do is very similar and would still be called a Calotype or Calotypy. I use a process invented by Alexander Greenlaw (1818-1870). The earliest account of Greenlaw's process was published in Photographic News in January 1869, also in the 8th edition of John Towler's book the Silver Sunbeam in 1873 which seems to use Greenlaw's own words. There is also an account in the 7th edition of Abney’s Instructions in photography dated 1886. This is very late for a process that peaked in the mid-1850s. Indeed it was still being cited in the early 1900s. Here we are in the 21st century and it is still viable.

The paper negative is a beautiful thing in and of itself. I started making them over a decade ago when I lived in Europe. What piqued my interest was the history of the process and that it was the original process in photography. It’s easy to connect these ideas and facts to my work today. The historical part is important because I’m working with land and people that were original. The Ute or Tabeguache people say that they were here since time immemorial. The original people. Their origin story talks about the Creator Sinawav gathering sticks and turning them into people.

Part of the story says this, “In the ancient times only Sinawav, the Creator, and Coyote lived on the earth. They had come out of the light so long ago, that no one remembered when or how. The Earth was young and the time had come to increase the people. Sinawav gave a bag of sticks to Coyote and said ‘Carry these over the far hills to the valleys beyond.’ He gave specific directions Coyote was to follow and told him what to do when he got there. ‘You must remember, this is a great responsibility. The bag must not be opened under any circumstances until you reach the sacred grounds.’”

I make a lot of photographs of trees. Trees are so vital to the indigenous people here. They have been used for food, shelter, ceremonial objects, etc. They are symbolic too. They are used as a metaphor in a lot of stories. The wood is made into paper. I make the negatives on paper. The connection here is profound to me. Working with materials that are made from the subject matter you are photographing is meaningful to me - a material-to-concept connection. And the people that lived here believe they were created from this material.

A test print from a Calotype (paper negative). I was attempting to render the tiny cross on the distant hill. The Palladiotype I printed didn’t show it, so I made a K1-Kallitype test today and it did. A warm developer with a lot of Borax gave this color. It is not toned, only cleared, fixed, and washed.

Detail of the above print. Forgive the iPhone photos.

A new Calotype I made today. I called it, “After the Rain, a Waterhole in Granite”. I’ll make a print of it soon. I like the abstract-ness of it and the shapes. The old Ponderosa Pine on the granite feels like it had something to do with the (almost) perfectly round watering hole - and yes, it’s filled with water. How did it form like this?

Inverted negative in Photoshop. Will look really good as a K-1 Kallitype or Palladiotype.

Does the How Support the Why?

I try to balance the technical, or the craft, with the concept. I believe that the craft should support the work, not the other way around. 

Too many times you see photographs that rely on the process, size, or technical skill of the photographer for their value. That only goes so far. A process photographer is not an artist (necessarily). They are process photographers. Skilled at making large or technically difficult images. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that, but a lot of times, viewers conflate size and technical complexity with art.

How do you create art? What is it that makes one photograph art and the other not? These are hefty questions that take a lot of conversation and background to answer. The quick, uncomplicated answer is narrative. What makes anything art is a good story. We, as humans, need to make sense of the world through stories, or life experiences. And if the stories are constructed well, sensible and coherent, they will resonate with us. That, to me, is the quick definition of art. Yes, it should be enigmatic, and interesting. You can leave some things to interpretation, of course. However, the main theme should be easy to understand. Complexity can come later. 

Balancing the craft with the concept is difficult. I usually find myself wanting the viewer to travel in time (visually) to the place that I’m telling my story about. Or I want the viewer to feel like they are looking at a memory of something, a forgotten place or time. That’s why I use 19th-century processes. It creates temporal confusion. It engages the viewer and supports my narrative.

Think about how you work. Do you ever consider these ideas? Does it make sense to lean on the narrative rather than the technical? What’s more impactful and meaningful to you? I find myself more interested in why the images were made rather than how they were made. And if the “how” support the “why” it’s can be a powerful piece or body of work!

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.

The Ute/Tabeguache Culturally Modified Trees (CMT)

UTE’S CULTURALLY MODIFIED TREES IN COLORADO

A Tree symbolizes permanence, and longevity and its firm base symbolize the concept of 'roots' and an ongoing relationship with natural surroundings.

Native tribes distilled resins from a number of trees for varnish, lacquer, medicines, and incense. Elmwood was used for eating utensils. A yellowish dye was derived from the sumac and black oak trees. Darker colored dyes were produced from walnut, maples, and locust trees.

The definition of a Ute Indian Prayer Tree is, “a culturally modified tree.” What this means is that the Ute would take care to modify the tree by peeling its bark or bending it in places using hemp ropes created from Yucca plants or horse hair. The most common trees used by the Ute were ponderosa pines and Aspen.

According to John Wesley Anderson, author of Ute Indian Prayer Trees of the Pikes Peak Region, “All trees modified by the Ute were sacred and prayers to recognize the tree’s consent and permission in the modification were made along with gratitude to the Creator.”

In the Pikes Peak region, which includes the area around Monument, all five types of prayer trees can be found:
1. Trail marker Trees
2. Medicine Trees
3. Burial Trees
4. Story Trees
5. Prophecy Trees.

The trees are listed in the frequency they are found. The Prophecy Trees are the rarest; however, one does exist in Fox Run Park in Monument.

A Trail marker Tree’s distinction is having a 30-degree bend to the trunk before it extends upward. These trees were culturally modified from the time they were a sapling by using hemp ropes attached to a stake. These trees always point toward a geographical or navigational reference point.

A Medicine Tree is distinctive by its scarred bark that has been pulled away from the tree trunk by a Ute medicine man. The bark is peeled from the top down to the bottom in one section.

A Burial Tree is distinctive and contains two 90-degree bends in the tree which point to where the Ute tribal leader is buried or a cedar tree to mark the possible site of the tribal leader.

A Story Tree or Message Tree’s distinction is that a short story or message is carved into an Aspen tree. These carvings are called Aspen Carvings or Arborglyphs and can be compared to Petroglyphs (rock art). These arborglyphs provide specific messages to other Ute Indians, such as the location of freshwater or good camping grounds.

The Prophecy Tree is also referred to as the Providence Tree or the Intertwined Tree because it is two trees that have been culturally modified to grow together. The Prophecy Tree is the rarest of all Ute Prayer Trees. The purpose of this tree is to tell of a future event, of someone or something. These trees could have required generations of Ute to cultivate them.

(From castlepinesconnection.com)

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