When I was a newspaper photojournalist, (back in the day), I learned to linger. By slowing down and melding into the scene, I was able to put myself in a headspace where I could see more of the world around me, anticipate events and eventually capture more compelling images. This deliberately gentle approach put me in positions to capture critical moments without placing myself in harm’s way on news scenes, gained me access to areas where more obtrusive journalists were turned away, and put the subjects of my images at ease. This same approach has worked well in my landscape photography.
When I was in Iceland this past summer, I scheduled a morning at Kirkjufell, likely the nation’s most-photographed mountain near Grundarfjörður on the lovely Snaefellsnes Peninsula. Much of my time in Iceland was spent driving, but there were a few times where I was able to forget about the time and drop into a low gear and enjoy the incredible beauty of the place. These times where I can truly be in the moment and let my mind spin down are way too rare, especially when on the move, but they are when the magic happens and my love for photography is reborn.
I arrived at Kirkjufell well before sunrise. The local time was probably around 2 am and I had the usually-crowded location entirely to myself. Kirkjufell is all over social media and like a lot of well-trod landscape photography hot spots it’s hard to find unique compositions. I knew going in that I wasn’t likely to find anything new there, but it was a lovely morning with clear skies above and a fog bank that seemed intent to sneak in and out so there was no reason for me to rush things. One of my rules for landscape locations is to scout out and shoot back. It’s easy to succumb to the temptation to stop at the first pretty spot and start making images, but until you know all of the options on your visual menu it’s really foolish to not check everything out before you start working. Of course, if light conditions were fleeting or some subject matter was insisting on making shots right away, I would have done that. Had a Yeti rode by on one of those little Icelandic horses, I would have jumped at the opportunity, but the sun was still over an hour away from showing itself and the only thing moving while I was there was me and the little river that meanders through the scene. So I walked the pathway along the river up and across the small bridge above the waterfall that so often serves as the foreground anchor in shots of the pyramid-shaped mountain. On the far bank of the river, I explored the network of trails along the water and once I was sure that I had scoped out all of the possible locations that appealed to me, I set up my tripod and began working out my compositions in the gentle blue hour light.
Down on the riverbank, I worked with a wide-angle lens to make panoramas of the waterfalls and mountain. Moving slowly and quietly, I let the serenity of the scene relax me. Long exposures allowed me to transform the waterfalls into silky plumes and the sneaky fog bank came and went, at times obscuring the mountain. I settled into a rhythm of work that panoramas inspire: shoot, pan, shoot, pan, shoot, pan, shoot. I stopped worrying about finding an angle that no one had shot before and I began to just enjoy being out in nature alone with a camera. It was incredibly satisfying.
When I felt that I had the set of images I wanted from a spot, I’d pick up my tripod and amble over to another spot. I changed lenses a couple of times to mix things up a bit, but at no point did I feel like I was doing anything I shouldn’t have been doing. I was where I belonged and I was doing what I loved doing. I took care to stay on the trail so there would be no evidence that I was ever there, and I peacefully enjoyed the slow brightening of the dawn and the almost tidal movement of the fog. It was blissful.
One other photographer showed up at one point and he quickly walked the trail and passed by me silently. He seemed to be gone as suddenly as he arrived, but I really don’t know how long he spent there. I saw this in a couple of other places in Iceland, and I’ve seen it many times back home. Photographers rushing to make shots and moving on. Run and gun. I’ve done it plenty myself and sometimes it’s what you have time to do, or perhaps the place isn’t speaking to you or maybe you are itching to see if the next place is “going off”. Whatever the reason, the rushed method of photography is rarely satisfying to me and maybe it’s just my notions of things, but I think the images I make in those rushed moments are lacking spirit and life.
And I guess that’s what this blog post is all about… enjoying life. My day-to-day is pretty well filled with rushing and clock watching and multitasking and leaving things partially completed. All of that drains me and leaves me deeply unsatisfied. It’s the moments when I can be in the moment that sustain me and bring me joy. Time playing with my kids after the chores are done. Sitting with my wife at the end of a long day, wine poured and a movie on the screen. Each week I get a fair number of moments like these, but almost all of them exclude photography. When I can find myself lingering in a moment with my camera close by soaking up the scene, I am happy.
Kirkjufell was such a place and when I scroll through the hundreds of images I made that morning I don’t see anything I haven’t seen before with other photographers names on them, but I do have a connection with these photos. A comfortable, warm connection to a time and a place where nothing else mattered but to be and see and enjoy.
