The project specs and budget seems legit, and has a very credible and detailed shot list that seems like it came from an agency.

I decided to play along and the weirdest part was the professional and responsive two-way communication. We talked details, negotiated the contract, compromised on certain concessions, etc. They were ready to move forward, schedule the date and pay me half upfront asap.

From what I understand of these scams, they “accidentally” over pay you with a fraudulent check. Then ask for a refund before the check has been flagged by the bank. You have transferred real funds to them by the time the forgery is discovered.

This is a long running scam but since it’s popping up again it’s worth putting the information out there again.

One variation I’ve heard is they overpay you but ask you to pay an advance to the stylist or some member of the crew who works for them.

Here’s the emails:

First Name: William  
Last Name: Morris
Phone: 208-480-5114
Email: Will.Morris.E@proton.me

Message:
Hello,

My name is William Morris, Creative Director contracted by The Residence 1502, Austin, TX to conceptualize a two-concept lifestyle interior photoshoot to promote one of their luxury condominium residences.

Concept 1 captures the quiet elegance of everyday moments with a couple subtly engaging with the space to convey aspirational living.

Concept 2 features a young family of four, highlighting the warmth, versatility, and family-friendly appeal of the same luxury setting.

We aim to create 50+ final images that blend high-end architectural photography with natural, authentic lifestyle moments. We're seeking the right photographer who can balance clean, well-composed interiors with an unobtrusive, candid approach to people within the space.

You can view the full project scope and creative direction here: https://app.milanote.com/1UMTsd1qNQYG4C?p=wEijF185S97.

If this aligns with your style, please feel free to get in touch with any questions.

Warmly,
William Morris
Creative Director

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Hello,

My name is Merlin Gauvin, Creative Director contracted by The Broadway Building, San Antonio, TX to conceptualize a lifestyle interior photoshoot to promote one of their luxury condominium residences.

We aim to create 26+ final images that blend high-end architectural photography with natural, authentic lifestyle moments. We’re seeking the right photographer who can balance clean, well-composed interiors with an unobtrusive, candid approach to people within the space.

You can view the full project scope and creative direction here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vSwdS_mHLfUtOUwksBwmaTNUJZEfElN3EyX0bkp5d0NBkYvmJQHS_NSPpyFZmZiOsaN3CFQDH1w0Ddy/pub.

If this aligns with your style, please feel free to get in touch with any questions.

Warmly,
Merlin Gauvin
Creative Director

Jan Erik Waider
Northlandscapes

Heidi: How did your background in visual design evolve into a deep connection with abstract landscape photography?
Jan: I have been self-employed from the very beginning of my career, starting out in graphic and web design long before photography became my primary focus. This independence allowed me to shape my own path and to travel early on, taking my projects with me at a time when remote work was far less common—and far more challenging—than it is today. Photography was always my passion and a constant companion on those journeys, especially in northern landscapes, which soon became my main geographical focus. I never had a traditional nine-to-five job—sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to actually have paid vacation. But then again, I’d probably spend that vacation the same way I already do on most of my trips—photographing from morning till night.
My design background strongly shaped the way I see and compose images. I’ve always been drawn to order within apparent chaos—structures that verge on the graphic or almost architectural. This naturally led me toward abstraction in photography, whether in ice formations, glacial rivers, or geological textures, often with a monochrome quality. Even in post-production, I approach my work much like design: reducing distractions, balancing tones and colors, and highlighting form. From the beginning, I cared less about the technical side of photography and more about aesthetics, emotion, and how an image resonates visually.

What draws you to work so closely with ice crystals, leaves, and bubbles, often in everyday settings?
I’ve always been fascinated by subjects with a fragile and transformative character. Ice is the most obvious example, but the same applies to weathered leaves, frozen bubbles, or patterns in water surfaces. These elements are constantly in flux, and each moment is unique—once it passes, it will never look the same again.
I’m naturally drawn to details and small structures, whether with a telephoto lens isolating fragments of an iceberg, a drone hovering low above a glacial river, or a macro lens capturing the texture of decaying foliage. These are motifs that most people overlook at first glance, but they hold an extraordinary beauty hidden in the mundane. I often describe this as nature’s own micro-architecture, offering endless abstract compositions—if you truly stop, look closely, and take your time. I sometimes joke that in another life I would probably have been a dog—constantly roaming around, sniffing out new things, and never getting bored.
This is also why I never tire of returning to the same landscapes. Even after dozens of journeys to Iceland, the rivers, glaciers, and volcanic landscapes never repeat themselves. Their transformations keep me curious, and every visit feels like discovering something for the very first time.

How many days are you creating seasonal imagery in these remote settings, and what is your set up?
Each year I spend around three to four months in the field, with one extended journey to Iceland lasting six or seven weeks and several shorter trips to other northern regions. I travel slowly, often with my converted off-road van, which doubles as a mobile workspace. It allows me to wake up directly at the location I want to photograph, or to simply wait out a storm—whether with a cup of coffee or by watching a favorite series—until the weather shifts.
My focus is usually on the transitional seasons—spring into summer, or summer into autumn—when landscapes are in flux and light can be particularly dramatic. Being alone in remote areas is not always easy, and solitude comes with its challenges. At times it can slip into a sense of true loneliness, but over the years I’ve learned to manage those emotions and to simply accept such days as part of the process. Traveling this way has taught me a great deal about myself—what truly drives me, what I am afraid of—and it has profoundly shaped who I am.
Of course, my camera bag is always too full—like everyone else’s—but in the end I keep returning to just a few lenses. I work with a Nikon Z8 paired with a small but versatile set: the NIKKOR Z 24–120mm for flexibility on hikes, the Z MC 105mm for macro details, and the Z 100–400mm with a 1.4x teleconverter for distant structures and abstract compositions. A DJI Mavic 4 Pro drone, along with a backup unit, completes the setup, offering aerial perspectives of glacial rivers and coastal terrain. For me, reliability and adaptability matter far more than carrying an extensive kit—this way I remain agile and focused on the experience of being out there.

Maintaining a visual diary across remote expeditions takes careful planning. What’s your workflow from the moment you return from a trip until images are archived?
My workflow actually begins while I’m still in the field. I aim to import and back up the day’s captures almost every evening, make a first rough selection, and sometimes even start editing inside the van. This early process helps me identify potential series and keeps me from being overwhelmed once I return home. At times it’s only after importing that I fully recognize the potential of a subject, which gives me the chance to return the next day and expand on it.
Back in Hamburg, I approach the images with fresh eyes and more distance. That’s when I refine the editing—mainly tonal adjustments, color grading, and contrast—to translate the emotion I felt on location into the final photographs. I don’t alter the content itself—no adding or removing elements, no replaced skies. My approach is about refining atmosphere and mood rather than reconstructing reality.
Archiving is a structured process: final selections are keyworded in Lightroom Classic according to a consistent system, backed up both locally and in the cloud, and also exported as high-res and low-res files for website and social media. From Lightroom, images are then uploaded directly via PhotoDeck to my searchable online library, for clients such as photo editors, magazines, and print customers. My library also features curated galleries based on themes, colors, and locations. This structure allows me to quickly respond to client requests, even when I’m traveling.

Do you work alone, or is there a team or network supporting image licensing, post-production, or logistics?
Most of the time I work alone, both in the field and in running my business. Solitude is an important part of my creative process—it gives me the freedom to shape my days entirely on my own terms and to connect more deeply with the landscapes I photograph. At the same time, I enjoy collaborating when it makes sense and value the exchange with others.
For certain aspects I rely on trusted partners: I outsource the production of prints to specialized labs, and my PhotoDeck library provides a professional infrastructure for licensing to clients worldwide. I also consult regularly with colleagues and peers, and I’m well connected within the photography community in my niche. When it comes to specialized topics—such as licensing frameworks, pricing, or marketing—I often seek out coaching, which helps me stay sharp and navigate an industry that is constantly evolving. And of course, I outsource my taxes as well—otherwise I would probably lose my sanity.
Through my many repeated journeys to Nordic countries such as Norway, Iceland, and Greenland, I’ve also built a strong network that extends far beyond photography colleagues. It includes production companies, logistics contacts, and local guides—connections that make complex projects in remote areas not only possible but also more efficient.
In the past, I worked with a photo rep, which gave me valuable experience in client relations and licensing. Today I handle most of these aspects myself, combining my design and marketing background with the independence I value as a photographer. This mix of autonomy in the field and selective collaboration behind the scenes ensures that my work stays personal, consistent, and true to my vision.

Tracy Hills, Outrigger scaffolding kit, June 2022.

Tracy Hills, Independent Construction Water Truck, August 2021.

Newly-Paved Streets at Sunset Southwest of the I-580, Tracy Hills, CA, December 2023.

Yogan Müller

Heidi: Your Tracy Hills imagery highlights ecological crises—like water access and wildfire risk—in a New Topographics context. What visual strategies did you use to balance documentary clarity with emotion?

Yogan: What I discovered in Tracy Hills took what I’ve been exploring for the past 10 years to a whole new level. In 2015, I documented a similar development in SW Iceland. Think new streets encroaching on rough lava terrain. Iceland prepared me for Tracy Hills, where scales were multiplied by 10.

On the first trip to Tracy Hills in August 2021, the entire Central Valley was shrouded in smoke from the Dixie Fire, which became one of the most devastating wildfires in California’s history. Setting foot in Tracy Hills, the noonday sun was filtering through the high-altitude haze, all the while casting an incredibly bright light on hundreds of houses under construction. It was 100°F. The raging fire up north and the marching construction enterprise seemed so dichotomous.

It was hard not to feel emotional when photographing this material, because it was a 1:1 reflection of the developments The New Topographics photographed in the region fifty years ago. That, of course, became a huge photographic challenge. However, for someone who hails from France and had the opportunity to further the conversation laid forth by the New Topographics was something very special. All the landscape books and photobooks I had poured myself into, all the sprawl pictures I’d avidly studied, had found a contemporary manifestation in Tracy Hills.

Walking the landscape made me feel solastalgic. Solastalgia refers to the emotions we feel when we know we are seriously altering the climate without taking sufficient action, despite the unequivocal evidence of change. At the same time, I felt the urge to photograph everything around me. I was shooting like a crazy fool. That was wonderful. So much material for my art laid around in the form of objects, textures, colors, and materials. I couldn’t stop.

The clarity you mentioned is crucial to me. In my recent projects, I have strived to distill complexity into cohesive pictures. If I think about it, it comes from my math background. Mathematics is so elegant, abstract, and simultaneously practical. Theorems, for example, often compress extremely complex concepts into a single proposition or, better, one absolute formula, from which the most vivid representations emerge. I like this idea. It informs large swaths of my work from the past several years.

All those concepts, concerns, and emotions are baked into the book, which launches this fall with Radius Books. Britt Salvesen and Greg Foster-Rice generously wrote two essays for the book. I am beyond grateful. With Radius Director David Chickey, we decided to shortcut some of the pages. That strategy creates powerful visual encounters and collisions between images and spreads. You can visibly see Tracy Hills sprawl into the edges of the ecosystem that supports the sprawling development, which has been my ultimate goal while photographing there.

Tracy Hills, double-page spread, photo courtesy of Radius Books.

Drones and LA Water Narratives, self-published book, UCLA Design Media Arts, March 2024.

Tell us about your self-published water-infrastructure book?
This self-published book is the culmination of my winter 2024 undergraduate class at UCLA Design Media Arts, where I introduced drone photography.
Students learned FAA rules, safety, and how to fly. They utilized this knowledge to focus on the Los Angeles Aqueduct that brings life to Southern California. By happenstance, my class convened shortly after the 110th anniversary of the Los Angeles Aqueduct inauguration on November 5, 1913.

I’ve always thought of drones as tools to enrich our sensory perception. I want to embrace this positive outlook and steer clear of all the other negative connotations drones are associated with.

We surveyed the aqueduct from Sylmar to Owens Lake, CA. Sylmar is where the aqueduct enters the city. The Cascades, visible from the I-5, are rather spectacular. Owens Lake, on the other hand, is, historically, the first source of fresh water for Los Angeles. Today, however, it is an engineered behemoth where the LADWP conducts dust mitigation experiments called “Best Available Control Measures.” I spent time flying there to

Airborne view of one of LADWP’s dust mitigation techniques (sprinkler irrigation), Owens Lake, CA, February 2024.

Downstream, the self-published book is a collection of diverse voices, co-designed, printed, and hand-bound by my students. I led the design and printing, and we had a lot of fun working together. This water class, survey, and book inaugurated a long-term project with the LA-based 501(c)3 Pando Populus. I will be glad to share more when the opportunity arises.

What unique storytelling potentials do photography books offer compared to exhibitions or online platforms?
A photobook is, in and of itself, a magical device and an art form. Once a show is done, it’s done. It may endure in installation pictures, memory, and sales, but it’s fundamentally done. Whereas a book circulates, reemerges, can be subject to awards, new printings, and pops up in fairs and shops far from its place of production, and years after its release. In other words, a book lasts longer and may reach a wider audience over time.

When pictures, pacing, typography, and paper work in unison, a whole world unfolds in a photobook. The very act of turning pages elicits strong visual relationships between pictures and spreads. The viewer is taken on a journey of visual encounters, emotions, and perception.

For me, a photobook opens a space for an intimate relationship between the viewer and the content. Turning pages is a sensual experience. A freshly printed book smells good. The paper has a texture that rubs on your fingertips. And pictures are visual stimuli. A photobook transforms distant subjects into an up close, felt, and even embodied experience.

I think it’s anthropologist Tim Ingold who, somewhere, wrote about the words printed in the silent pages of a book. This holds true for a photobook. I like to populate this silence with pictures that visibly encapsulate sound. Flipthrough video here

Online will always be a place in flux. For me, it’s a good space to design complementary, immersive experiences through full-screen galleries and otheri nteractive interfaces. As such, a website can be a wonderful space to share the research and creative decisions that shaped a photobook.

Your practice includes photogrammetry, drones, AI, and book design. How do these tools influence your creative process and storytelling in both personal and editorial work?
Embracing photogrammetry, drones, and AI pushed me to undertake a profound overhaul of how I use photography.
That came from teaching and engaging with faculty, students, and staff at UCLA Design Media Arts. Our department embraces new technologies wholeheartedly. Over time, I increasingly saw and used photography as an expanding field, and a medium porous to rapid, often radical technological advances–think of generative AI, for example–and a medium that has never ceased to shapeshift since 1839.

Teaching these tools and topics had me learn them inside out, which naturally pushed me to stay curious, alert, and hungry for the newest iterations. That’s one of the wonderful gifts of teaching.

Now, bearing the ecological crisis in mind, I can’t help but ponder the overlap of exponential technology and our exponential environmental footprint, a hallmark of the Anthropocene. I guess both are rooted in the idea that there are no limits to what we can do, which is, in a way, true – human ingenuity often seems unlimited – although it’s clearer and clearer that this is undermining the very conditions limitless endeavors are predicated on.

Practically, photogrammetry has thrust photography into the third dimension. Drones take it to the skies. AI taps into the enormous visual archive that is the Internet. Books open photographs to a fuller sensory pictorial appreciation that is tactile and intimate. It’s incredible to think we have easy access to such tools. At the same time, they have a dark side that can’t be ignored. That’s what artists have been doing: using the tools while critically engaging with their underlying problematic dynamics and foundations.

I am really into drones at the moment. Flying high, you decenter yourself by seeing the complexity of the world around you. I am here, on my feet, immersed in the world, piloting, and simultaneously aloft, contemplating it in flux, 50, 200, 350ft in the air. That’s what I mean by “drones enrich our sensory perception.” I am fascinated by the artistic and technical possibilities of remote sensing, so much so that I’ve launched a drone photography business called Topographica. I serve architecture, construction, and public art clients in SoCal. Drones are incredible tools to contextualize and elevate installations and constructions. They are also incredible tools to create 3D, 1:1 digital twins of real-world projects through photogrammetry. With them, artists and operators can document, map, archive, and tell stories based on data-rich, airborne images.

“Overshoot” launched in 2025 how did this idea come about?
I am grateful to Aline Smithson, Founder and Director of Lenscratch, for letting me create a dedicated space for ecologically-minded visual practices and conversations. Overshoot stems from a deep care and love for the environment, ecological arts and justice. We live in ecological overshoot. That is the central premise of the column. In homage to Donna Haraway, I want to “stay with the trouble”.

Overshoot also stems from the central claim of my practice-based PhD thesis–completed in 2018: photography is one of the tools that brought us into the Anthropocene. In hindsight, this line of inquiry, which I’ve explored in my manuscript and fieldwork in SW Iceland, was a reaction to what I learned when studying photography in Brussels. I’d often hear: “That’s just an image,” which always resonated as “photography is nothing more than an image.” That not only seemed at odds with all the time and care I’ve always put into planning trips to Iceland and making photographs there, but also didn’t take into consideration the historic and metabolic ties between photography and energy.

Overshoot holds space for conversations, portfolios, and scholarly essays that directly engage with this moment of ecological overshoot. Ecologically-minded works and practices abound and are incredibly diverse. My goal is to offer artists a platform to share, discuss, and promote their work. I am also curious to know how they’ve come to grapple with the ramifications of ecological overshoot.

I’ve just interviewed Siobhan Angus. Siobhan published an important book with Duke University Press last year titled “Camera Geologica. An Elemental History of Photography,” in which she traces the mineral extraction, use, and flows that have shaped photography over space and time. That is a fascinating and richly-layered history I’d encourage everyone to read. Her interview will be out on September 12. As a brand, Overshoot attempts to capture the exponential rise and use of photography. We still say we “shoot” images, and frequently mention the information and visual overload we experience online every day. That is also what informed Overshoot’s visual identity.

Alex Turner: Blind Forest

We caught up with photographic artist Alex Turner, whose work lives where vision meets sensation and ecology meets memory. In his acclaimed Blind Forest series now showing at Marshall Gallery, Turner uses thermal imaging to reveal the hidden life of trees—turning them into living witnesses, storytellers, and  ethereal portraits of our changing world.

Your images often make the invisible visible. What drew you to thermal imaging as your primary tool in Blind Forest?
Alex: What drew me to thermal imaging was its ability to reveal what’s normally invisible not just heat, but a different way of seeing vitality, presence, and change. In Blind Forest, I wanted to portray trees not as passive background elements, but as active, responsive organisms—beings that store energy, regulate their environments, and bear witness to time in a way few other living things can. Thermal imaging allowed me to visualize those hidden dynamics: the conservation, transmission, and loss of heat within and around each tree. But it wasn’t just about ecology—it was also about cultural memory. Many of the trees I photographed hold long histories, both ecological and human. Some were cultivated by Indigenous communities for food and medicine; others stand on sites of forced labor, displacement, or violence. Trees have absorbed these layered histories, and the thermal camera offered a way to suggest that embeddedness. Heat becomes a kind of residue, a trace of what a tree has lived through or is currently enduring. In that sense, thermal imaging became a way to look at trees not only as biological subjects, but as cultural witnesses.
I was also interested in repurposing a technology typically used for surveillance, hunting, or fire detection—tools often associated with control or extractive thinking—and turning it toward something more reverent and speculative. The resulting images resist literal interpretation; they ask the viewer to slow down, to sit with ambiguity, and to consider the forest as a place where both natural systems and human histories are in constant flux.

What are the ethical considerations behind obscuring or withholding your image locations?
Withholding specific locations is both an ethical and conceptual choice. On one level, it’s about protection. Many of the trees I photograph are old, vulnerable, or located in ecologically sensitive areas. Publicizing exact coordinates can unintentionally invite harm—through increased foot traffic, extraction, or even vandalism. In an age of geotagging and digital overexposure, some places need anonymity to survive. But there’s also a deeper philosophical and cultural reason. Many of these trees hold significance not just ecologically, but culturally—especially to Indigenous communities who have long-standing relationships with these species as sources of medicine, food, and spiritual meaning.

Withholding location becomes a gesture of respect, recognizing that these trees are not simply photographic subjects or aesthetic objects, but beings embedded in cultural systems of value and care that precede and exceed my presence as an artist.

More broadly, I’m less interested in offering a precise where than I am in encouraging a deeper look at the land, how we relate to nonhuman life, how we carry stories of place. By withholding coordinates, I invite the viewer to encounter the tree not as a destination or trophy, but as a living presence. This choice also pushes back against the extractive tendencies of both landscape photography and colonial mapping practices. Naming a place, claiming it, and presenting it as “known” can flatten its complexity. In Blind Forest, I want to keep some things partially obscured—not to mystify, but to honor the idea that not everything is ours to name, frame, or expose.

What role does fieldwork play in your practice—how do you locate and build relationships with your subjects?
I spend a lot of time hiking, researching, asking questions, and building relationships. With Blind Forest, that meant working closely with arborists, forest ecologists, historians, and Indigenous knowledge-keepers to locate trees that carry not just ecological significance, but cultural and historical weight as well.
Sometimes a tree is introduced to me through a historian or ecologist; other times I come across one by accident, and then spend weeks or months trying to understand its context—how it fits into a broader ecosystem, who has cared for it, what it has witnessed. I try to return to sites multiple times, sometimes across seasons, to watch how the tree responds to heat, drought, wind, or fire. That temporal intimacy feels crucial.

It’s not just about finding “beautiful” trees—it’s about seeking out complexity, endurance, and entanglement. And it requires a certain kind of humility. These aren’t blank canvases or passive subjects; they’re living beings embedded in systems that far exceed my own timeline. Fieldwork, for me, is about cultivating a practice of attention—being present, doing the research, and recognizing when to step back.

How does your work address climate and ecological loss without relying on traditional documentary tropes?
I’m interested in climate and ecological issues, but I try to approach them through a slower, more reflective lens—one that resists the spectacle and elegiac tendencies often found in traditional environmental documentary work. Rather than show devastation directly—burned forests, parched landscapes, suffering wildlife—I focus on subtler forms of presence and absence. The thermal images in Blind Forest don’t depict disaster as bluntly; they reveal systems under stress, energy in transition, and histories held quietly in living organisms. It’s a way of inviting viewers to feel their way into these questions, rather than confront them with fixed narratives. I think traditional documentary often relies on visibility to create impact—showing what’s been lost, what’s on fire, what’s at risk. And while that has real value, I’m drawn to a more speculative, even poetic approach. One that makes room for ambiguity, wonder, and grief to coexist. Thermal imaging helps with that—it doesn’t render the landscape in familiar terms, but through a register of energy that is less about appearances and more about relationships: between organism and environment, between past and present, between perception and reality.

If you could pass on one technical or philosophical principle to photographers working with landscape today, what would it be?
If I could pass on one principle, it would be to slow down—both technically and conceptually. Landscape photography has long been associated with grandeur, clarity, and conquest—the wide view, the decisive moment, the untouched wilderness. But in reality, landscapes are layered, politicized, lived-in, and constantly changing. They deserve more than just aesthetic appreciation; they deserve attention, patience, and humility. Slowing down might mean spending more time with a place before photographing it. It might mean learning its ecological and cultural histories, or questioning your own presence within it. Technically, it could mean working with processes that stretch time—like stitching, long exposures, or analog materials—not for nostalgia’s sake, but to make space for complexity. Philosophically, it’s about resisting the impulse to extract a single, striking image and instead engaging with the landscape as a collaborator, not a subject. There’s so much urgency in the world right now, especially around climate and ecological loss— but I think slowness can be a form of resistance. It lets us listen more carefully, look more closely, and imagine more responsibly.

Can you walk us through that moment in the clonal Aspen grove—when you realized the coyote was there? What were you feeling, and how did that experience shape the resulting image?
I was camping alone in the middle of the aspen grove when, late at night, I heard something rustling nearby. It was pitch black—I couldn’t see a thing. I reached for my thermal scope and spotted a coyote, no more than twenty feet away, perfectly still, staring directly at me. It sent a chill through me. There was something unsettling in that moment of mutual recognition, but also a profound sense of asymmetry. The coyote, with its excellent night vision, could see me plainly. I could only return its gaze through the mediation of a camera.

That moment shifted something in me. I became acutely aware of how dependent I was on technology to perceive what was otherwise invisible to me. The thermal scope didn’t just reveal the coyote—it revealed the limits of my own perception. And in that same instant, the forest around us—specifically, the clonal aspen colony I was there to photograph—took on a different kind of presence. The coyote wasn’t a singular visitor; it was part of a continuous ecosystem, one in which I was the outsider, looking in.

What made you decide to keep the coyote out of focus, and instead focus on the tree behind it? Was that choice aesthetic, conceptual, or instinctive in the moment?
In my previous project Blind River, I used remote sensing technologies triggered by movement to capture subjects as they passed through the landscapes of the U.S.–Mexico border. That process—especially the AI recognition software attempting to isolate figures from their surroundings—raised compelling questions about how we determine what is distinct from a landscape, and why. Who or what is considered a visitor? A trespasser? A part of the scene or apart from it? With Blind Forest, I wanted to invert that logic and shift the focus entirely toward the landscape —specifically, the trees—as enigmatic, sentient, and sometimes charismatic subjects. It was a move toward a more ecocentric perspective. Everything else—humans, wildlife—would become secondary. Deliberately placing the coyote out of focus was shaped directly by my experience with the animal. It became a way of acknowledging that this place wasn’t about the drama of my human- wildlife encounter. It was about the quiet, persistent presence of the forest itself—an ancient, interconnected organism. The coyote became part of the story, but not the center of it.

There’s a lot of talk in photography about capturing the ‘decisive moment.’ But your process seems to stretch that moment across time and space. How do you think stitching affects the way we experience time and presence in an image like this one?
I think it’s important to explain the stitching process, because it speaks directly to some of the deeper conceptual undercurrents of the work. At first glance, it may seem like you’re looking at a singular moment in time. But each image is actually composed of over a hundred smaller frames, stitched together over the course of up to an hour. That temporal stretch is embedded in the final image, even if it’s not immediately visible.

I’ve always struggled with the idea that photography is primarily a medium for capturing a single, decisive moment. That notion implies a kind of narrative closure—that the moment photographed contains the essence or climax of a situation. But in reality, most events and environments are far more layered and unfolding. Freezing a single frame can flatten that complexity, and at worst, it can project the illusion of objectivity—a supposedly ‘truthful’ instant that’s actually shaped by countless subjective decisions: where you stand, when you click the shutter, what you include or exclude. In Blind River and again in Blind Forest, I’m interested in challenging that sense of fixed truth and instead suggesting that narrative—and presence—is continuous. With Blind Forest, the subject matter itself encourages this shift. Trees appear still, even static, to the human eye. But they are constantly exchanging energy with their surroundings.

Thermodynamics upends our assumptions about their stillness. Heat moves, radiates, dissipates—those rates of change make time visible in subtle, surprising ways. The thermal camera doesn’t just record temperature—it reveals time embedded in matter: a burned scar, a cooling trunk, a stressed limb. The forest becomes not a frozen scene, but a living system in flux. And through the stitching process, I’m trying to honor that slowness and complexity—to hold space for presence that isn’t defined by the instant, but by duration, accumulation, and transformation.