Shot in the Dark . . . home to some of Black Lantern’s best photographic work from the night, celebrating that other half of the day.

05.16.12

The huntress. As I headed out for some sky shots on the Oregon coast last Friday night, I caught a glimpse of this blue heron stalking minnows in a shallow backwater at the edge of the beach. I sat and watched for maybe half an hour as she crept through the dark water. There was this strange, elegant ferociousness about the way she pursued her catch that evoked for me the bird’s reptilian predecessors. One could almost imagine what it may have been like to watch a young dinosaur, a raptor perhaps, after its prey. I was grateful for the chance to take a few shots and for the wonderful bit of time travel the hunt provided.

05.08.12: SITD Inside

Sometimes the best shots you’ll get at the museum is in the eerily and immaculately lit elevator…

04.30.12

Shots in the dark forest are difficult. Away from the fire and shielded from the moonlight, the understory usually lacks sufficient light to get much of anything in the way of photography (not to diminish in the slightest what one can experience there at the edge of one’s senses). But water is perhaps most magic at night. Water captures and reflects even the softest light from a dim sky, and the moisture from creeks and rivers bathes nearby rocks and plants with a thin, reflective coating.

The stand of trees where this shot was taken is an important one to me–a place where some of the original thoughts for Cartesian Eco-FemDarkanism were formed. This night, we had a giant area among these trees and along the river all to ourselves. I can’t call it solitude exactly, because I was in such great company. Solitude be damned in that case.

02.26.12: SITD Classic

Time to break out another SITD Classic shot: “Man meets Cleetwood.”

“…lore once had it that in the cindercone of the volcano to the south of the lake there stood an old dead tree long since turned to cleetwood by the heavy snows that keep quiet the fiery secrets of this land. It is said that late one summer evening, a wise elder made his routine late summer climb to the summit. As he laid and watched the drift of the night sky, he felt a great sense of warmth and calm. He knew the day’s journey had been his final trek to this place.”

“He rose up from the grasses in his position beside the Great Tree that had succumbed to the past winter’s snow–satisfied. The wise man said a few words of thanks to the fallen and to the cold night air as he took a few paces; then he stretched toward the sky and opened himself fully to the darklight. In a bolt he was a giant Hemlock, chosen successor to reign over the cindercone as ‘the Wizard,’ guardian of the sky and land of this realm for the centuries to come.”

Here we approach the Wizard gently in the polite hope of a brief exchange. What is that mist stretched between Man and Cleetwood in the image? We told you this place is magic. You decide.

02.05.12

The Moon put on her crown Friday night. I was fortunate to have my camera with me. Some nights you just have to wander the streets a bit…

Here, I am the percieved.

01.25.12: SITD Classic

During the long, cloudy winter here in the Pacific Northwest, we’ll take an occasional look back at some of the inspiration for taking cold, hard Shots in the Dark–when we do, we’ll call it “SITD Classic.” There’s no pinning down with precision when we first took to night photography. There’s an argument it began almost a decade ago. For myself, somewhere along the way, I went from taking the occasional poor moon snapshot to lingering outside at night, waiting and working for the best shot I could get to capture that simultaneous feeling of the infinite embrace and the insignificant solitude of standing under the night sky. I’ve grown to seek shots that evoke the eternal sense of wonder our species has so long expressed by looking up, and hopefully we accomplish some of that here.

In September 2008, I went with a close friend and fellow skyhound, Ryan Lynch, on one of our repeat trips to Crater Lake. The mood was interesting because we had just come off of an amazing weekend with a few other close friends and, though under normal circumstances we’d be out of our minds about a trip to Crater Lake, we were slightly subdued by what we call “experience hangover.” Here’s a shot of said experience, a Labor Day raising of the Slumpdragon:

Undaunted, the two of us headed out to hit a few of the peaks in the park. The weather was amazing–the weekend before it had snowed, but we were met with clear skies and daytime temps approaching 80. The stage was set for some of my most memorable nights of skygazing. At elevations of five to nine thousand feet, and with artificial light a seeming distant memory, the celestial happenstance was off the charts. So, while these images are not necessarily representative of our current work, they sparked a fire that we eventually used to light a Lantern. Enjoy!

Note: In the second image below, Lynch is standing at the southern precipice of Mt. Scott, which you can see clearly from the shot of the lake in the previous 12.16.11 installment of Shot in the Dark.

12.16.11

Over the past seven years, we have visited Crater Lake National Park regularly. For some of us, the Park has become a sort of outdoor home away from home. It is hard to describe the amazing feel of the place, but if you can imagine standing on a peak of a mountain at about 8,000 feet with unbroken forested hills in every direction as far as the eye can see, then you are getting there. It is a place of significant magic whether you believe in that sort of thing or not.

There is a small window to visit the park if you intend to avoid the use of cross-country skis or snow mobiles. Summer is very short, and the snow piles up early in fall and hangs around late into Spring. A few weeks ago in mid-November I was near Crater Lake visiting my wife at an archaeological site in the Klamath Basin. She hadn’t yet seen the lake, and even though she was working, we decided to head up the last remaining open road into the Park to watch the moonrise.

It was cold, windy, and beautiful on the snowy southern rim of the lake. A thick layer of clouds obscured the moon. It seemed as if the lake was just beginning to pull the covers over for it’s long hibernation. We didn’t stay too long, and the quick visit seemed a little odd compared to our usual long journeys there. I negotiated with the clouds as long as I could for a peek at the moon and, unsuccessful, snapped off a couple of shots. Here’s a nod to an old friend…

11.01.11

Happy All Souls Day! Hope that the spirits came out to play where you were last night. This weekend, we caught some amazing weather and got a chance to get out and drift among the fall colors in the foothills. We ended the day at Trillium Lake near Mount Hood to watch the sunset’s reflection on the western face of the mountain and to experience a little endarkened quiet at the lake’s edge. These three spirits called to us…

This is the twelfth monthly installment of our Shot in the Dark series, which has to date been a single photo serially published and discussed. It has been a lot of fun to do this each month–it has pushed us to take photos of the night consistently and to try to make something more beautiful and powerful than the last. Looking back over the shots is a nice trip through many amazing nights over the last year…for us, it’s a sort of journal written in the dark.

From here, the Shot in the Dark posts will be less regular. We might post a bunch in one month and none the next, following more on the inspiration of what we have been shooting rather than a set schedule. We might also post a series of several shots, for example, rather than just an individual image. We hope some have enjoyed the series and will continue to check in on our ongoing exploration and embrace of Darkanism.

09.20.11

There’s just something about standing at the edge of (or in) a body of water as the moon sets. There’s a pull that keeps us coming back to the experience.

Olympic Peninsula has had a pull lately. We’ve been back twice this summer. On our recent Labor Day adventure (a tradition that has spanned the past six or seven years), we headed up the Queets River, a small finger of federal land on the Park’s southwest side. The road we planned to use to reach our trailhead was closed due to a severe landslide that we could not negotiate; undaunted, we made our own route along the river’s edge.

We ultimately connected back to the trail and met a few nice folks who remarked at how crowded the campgrounds were. Unbeknownst to us, there was a different road that led into the area where we had hoped to find a few nights of extreme solitude. A couple miles up the trail, not yet resigned to spending time in overflowing campgrounds, we found a small trail leading back toward the river. We took it without much hesitation. Before long, we felt confident we were following an elk trail through alder forests and swampy bogs and open fields of grass where elk herds bed down at night. We were certain the trail led back to the river.

It was a strangely powerful feeling to follow that trail: to take the path elk and bear and fox and coyote use to find a crucial water source, to rely on their wisdom for an afternoon. It indeed led us to the river, to the swimming hole we needed, to the solitude we desired, to the night sky we worship. So, in honor of the fading summer, enjoy a double-shot of Queets River moonset.

08.31.11

standing where ground meets the ocean

on a hybrid of land and water

where i may linger only a while.

walking toward the sunset,

an opening on the horizon;

it’s starkness strikes some fear

because it seems

i can walk right into its beckoning,

my form silhouetted against an orange-rimmed hole in the sky.

maybe this all began with a sunset from the top of a mountain in the Cascades.

but i am seeing and feeling it anew,

remembering where i came from and where i am headed.

afraid.

at times it seems i’ve lost the feeling—seen too many big trees and ferns.

but i haven’t.

and then there is the moon.

the dragonflies are out to play,

as i

in this half-light

everything reflecting this rare hue of pink.

only  a moment until gentle turning and dusk’s breeze calls for purple.

the giant cottonwood

last

to say goodnight.

07.24.11

Among us, we have a saying: “Beach don’t care.” The refrain helps us remember that even though we are enamored with the beauty and spectacle that is nature, nature proceeds on its uncaring march of attraction, creation, destruction. Beach is a great representation of that notion: the tide will crush you without paying the slightest heed; it will reform even rock. But there is a tranquility to beach, a softness too. It is alluring to think, in the reflection of the moon, that the show’s for you.

We recently spent some time hiking along the edge of the Hoh Rain Forest in Olympic National Park. The celestial happenstance was off the charts the last two nights we spent on the beach. In the Pacific Northwest, clear sunsets are hard to come by. Most of the time, even on a clear day, there is a thick haze on the horizon that obscures otherwise brilliant sunsets. Conditions have to be pretty stable to get a sharp horizon’s edge. One evening near Scott’s Bluff at the edge of the Giant Graveyard, we watched a sunset so clear it looked as if you could walk right out to it and disappear into a bright hole in the sky, for a moment, only your vaporous shadow visible to those left behind.

These clear conditions lasted two days and nights, and after the sun set, the sliver moon appeared, already late on its own path to the horizon. Here the moon splashes down between two rocky voids. I stood in the moon’s reflection on the wet sand, where water and land meet, and freaked out a little while I snapped off shots. A lyfetyme highlight.

06.27.11

Summer arrives. The telltale sign of the season’s change is the regreening of the cedars and firs: the trees look so much more well-defined; the tips of their branches seem to glow in the dark. There is a certain irony to the arrival of summer here. Winter is long and dark and often bullies Spring well into May and even June. Then, just as the days begin to get a little warmer, a little longer, and a little less rainy, everything blooms–the canopy fills in and blocks out much of the morning and evening sun, leaving only highest afternoon free from long shadow. Flowers gather in the spaces below the openings in our green ceiling.

Life grows up from those dark spaces too, reaching up out of the shadow. For me this image is a decent representation of the ancient Greek myth that life sprang from within a deep chasm that formed in the Earth (Chaos). Here fern reaches up from the depths…

I took this shot on the solstice hanging out of my home office window. The branches on the right are part of a tree that I have spent many hours looking at. Since the days of my childhood treehouse this is probably the closest relationship I have had with a particular tree, and when we leave this place, I will certainly miss it.

06.05.11

A close friend wrote a few amazing lines in a journal of mine while we were snowshoeing a few months back that have really stuck with me:

complex

interest

in the energy that connects

me to the rest

of the planet;

we’re losing the ability

to look at the sky

and

underSTANDit.

Has a nice rhythm to it. The lines inspired me to try to create an image of someone trying to touch the sky, to harken back to the basic curiosity that lingers from before the time when we underSTOOD we can’t touch the stars merely by stretching for them. I love the word underSTAND and its implication that we garner an appreciation for things by placing ourselves below them. There is a real humility in underSTANDing.

Hand is subject in this image. At first or second blush, hand has little to do with stars, but this body is all I have to experience the stars with. The separation between mind and body, sky and earth is an old one that doesn’t do us a damn bit of good. Prune your roots.

04.28.11

On our recent trip to Berkeley for an Earth Day performance, we got the opportunity to cross the Golden Gate Bridge for a visit to the Muir Woods and the chance to pay homage to a giant among American naturalists, John Muir. His work helped to preserve huge wild spaces in California such as Yosemite and Sequoia that are some of the most striking and awe-inspiring wild places we have ever experienced. I say “preserve” because Muir’s beliefs about human interaction with the natural world ran contrary to many at the time who subscribed to “conservation,” which took a more managerial approach to these areas, viewing them as a set of “natural resources” to be managed for the benefit of human beings.

They call this area the Muir Woods National Monument. We usually think of monuments as grand built structures, as human creations to honor someone or something. The word comes from the Latin, monere: to remind or to warn. Despite the lack of built structure in this place, I’d say the word is perfectly appropriate.

It is difficult to shoot forests in the dark without artificial lighting (or an intense moon), so count this as a “Shot in the Dusk.” Still, this image conveys the feel of Darkanism–the forest calls, beckons us to wander in its canopied dimness. The mists in the distance seem the physical form of a question. After the long semester of show planning, logistics, and travel associated with our project, this was the perfect way to spend an afternoon and evening–a reminder, and a warning.

03.22.11

I just feel fortunate to have been in this moment. It was only a moment. I was tired and, just like many things, it seems a little better afterward than during. Still, celestial happenstance like this is one of my favorite kinds of moments. I love to step out with the camera and concentrate on it, if only for a few minutes . . .

This was taken during the super-moon-rise over the Hood Canal, a finger of water that stretches from the Puget Sound down into the Olympic Peninsula. It felt nice to be back there. Nearby Olympic National Park is one of the most amazing and wild places I have ever experienced. If you go only once, see the Enchanted Valley, but be prepared to drive through the clearcuts to get to the ancient treasure the park represents.

Wide-angle night shots are a little new for me. This shot makes me think of my genetic predecessor’s slow creep out of the ocean onto the land . . .

02.20.11

Depth. Darkness has a depth that light can’t touch. You know there is something there, past the point where light gives way–the point where memory and imagination mix. I think it is inviting and inspiring. This setting was perfect: the rising full moon, the mist hanging in the trees, the cascading layers of douglas fir trees, and a bridge for me to stand on!

I want to take photos that draw people in–that might pull someone from across a room because every step reveals a bit more of the image. I took the series of shots that this photo came out of along the Salmon River in the Mount Hood National Forest during the full moonrise a few nights ago. The photos have a depth that is hard to get in the dark. Many of my past images in this sort of light had a 2D quality: the foreground was flat black against the background, often the sky. So, the trees wouldn’t have much detail, because the image would get grainy as I raised the brightness. The new camera is changing that…I love the trunk of the main tree on the right of the image.

01.23.11

Light looks so much better in the dark. This image makes me think about how it might look to search in the darkness of the mind for some faint memory or a new idea.

Just got a Canon Rebel T2i, and its sensor is amazing. Welcome to a new dawn for Darkanism. Can’t wait to see what images are waiting out there.

12.21.10

One can find more convenience and comfort in our culture than ever before, and sometimes it dulls the senses and eliminates what we refer to as “The Juice.” Roughly speaking “The Juice” is a by-product of hard work toward something you believe in or feel compelled to work towards. It can also be the product of a connection of the unexplained between two entities: human to human, plant to soil, even water to rock. It is a kinetic force that can move objects in the physical realm, but it can also evoke emotion in its presence or even in a memory. It is a reason, a resolve and a reaction.

This power recently moved me toward experiencing the lunar eclipse that took place. I didn’t have a reason to even attempt this as all the weather reports stated that cloud cover would ruin my chance to see it, it was cold out, there was a chance for rain, I’m tired.

Why make the effort?

The smallest “yes” can make a difference, can have a vast impact on the world, and can yield more in return than was originally given. In return for my small effort of missing a few hours of sleep, I witnessed the clouds break to reveal a stunning lunar eclipse. I was humbled, blessed and happy–warm with the moment. Winter is here and ripe with “The Juice.”

Merry Winter Solstice.

11.21.10

This shot was taken at McNeil Point on the northwest flank of Mt. Hood. We hiked up to a little over 6000 feet to a spot a good friend recommended. There is a stone shelter that was built there in the thirties during the Works Progress Administration and it was supposed to be one of many built to house hikers on the original trail that was to circle the mountain. Before long, they figured out the trail was too high up the mountain to be of much use, so they moved it down the mountain. They left four of these stone huts, which have a bare floor and a sweet stone hearth complete with a chimney. It makes a great base for viewing the Sandy River valley and the glacier that created it, an amazing series of forested hills, four volcanoes (Hood, St. Helens, Adams, Baker), and, at night, the city off in the Willamette River valley.

I like this shot a bunch. We got a little lucky. The air was very still and clear with a little moisture. The moon came up right over the mountain, and as daylight faded a huge circle appeared around the moon. There was enough light and water to make a faint night-rainbow on the inner edge of the circle. It was an amazing night.

We have a line in the show, “the circle improves the line,” and I have enjoyed coming up with shots to represent natural circles bisected by lines. Human modeling is represented by the line; Nature’s model, the circle. This worked out coincidentally – Nate and I are standing at a spot where the circle intersects the line.