Magic moments.

Writers often talk about starting a new book and the terror of staring at the first blank page. For landscape photographers maybe it's all about the first field trip, or maybe producing the first image that seems to work. In every body of work there seems to be a turning point where things begin to come together after slow or false starts. It's the time when the ideas become clear and the direction the work should take emerge from the images and a style and strategy to take the work forward sort of pops out at you. 

I remember a few such moments, some are there out in the field while photographing and some happen back in the studio when looking at work prints from a recent field trip. Sometimes it may be a chance happening or conversation that simple changes your mood and mindset. 

An example of the first was when I was struggling a bit with the 'Wildwood' work. I had made several field trips to Ty Canol forest in Pembrokeshire but found the resulting images too typical of what everyone imagined an ancient forest to be. 

Ty Canol Forest, Penbrokeshire, Wales

The images of the ancient oaks and mossy rocks were very 'Tolkienesque' and did not evoke the kind of intrigue that I wished from this body of work. I finally abandoned working in that forest and chose to work in places that didn't appear to have any sense of order and where the images didn't necessarily present themselves as complete and already framed as in Ty Canol. In other words one had to 'hunt' and work a little harder to make sense of it all. As with all bodies of work there were the first images in this new place and strategy that marked the change and the trigger that opened up the possibilities. Some remain after the final edit as being relevant to the overall body of work and some 'bite the dust'. One of the earliest that remained in the series and also made both the exhibition and the book was this image of Pen Gelli forest.

Pen Gelli Forest, Pembrokeshire

An example of an event that triggered a change in fortune for a particular body of work happened to me in Ireland in about 1987. I had been having a hard time making work for no apparent reason, although the weather had been appalling for over a week. I work in pretty much all weathers but there are times when it does preclude doing anything worthwhile. It had been one of those weeks. I was in the west of Ireland, the Connemara region of Co. Galway and I was almost at the point of despair. Miles from anywhere on a bleak coastal road, the only traffic we had seen for days, on the days we could see beyond the mist, was a pony and cart with a family travelling along.
It was probably on the wettest, mistiest, bleakest day that I was at the point of giving up. Not even a pub for many miles to retreat to with a Guinness. I was still trying though. Under the wet focussing cloth heavy and clammy with the rain and mist I was struggling to make sense of something on the steamed up ground glass that was running with water. It was then that I was aware of someone standing alongside me and I lifted up the focussing cloth to see. A man with a bicycle had appeared out of the mist from nowhere. Man and cycle both looked of a certain vintage. Both well used, shabby appearance held together with baler twine. The man was quite short with a long coat against the rain that almost reached to the ground and wrapped around him with plenty to spare. The only thing peeping out from the bottom were his boots and cycle clips. The wrapping was held in place with more baler twine. All topped by a hat of uncertain type, vintage and colour. To be honest, I wasn't in the mood for polite conversation. I am often approached when I'm using the large field camera by people asking why I use "an old plate camera" etc. etc. etc. I then have to go into long explanations; "it's not old, it's not a plate camera, yes they are all new state of the art lenses" and so on. Today I was definitely not in the mood. He looked up at me, "good day sir". "Oh, good morning". "Now then sir, tell me this 'ting now, why in God's name are you way out here in the rain with that big wooden 'ting?" Pointing to my camera. I was thinking the same thing about him and his bike. Oh dear, I thought, here we go. "Well, I'm undertaking a project photographing both the Welsh and Irish landscapes which will be shown jointly in an exhibition touring both countries". "Well now sir, that's a grand 'ting". 'Now tell me this sir, what do you think of those wonderful cloud pictures - his 'equivalents' made by Alfred Stieglitz?" 

Alfred Stieglitz, 'Equivalent Series, 1925-'28

My jaw dropped, I wasn't expecting this. "Oh I love those, very modernist and went quite against the trend at the time in the USA". The conversation about the American modernist tradition in photography between us went on in similar vein for some time. He then bid me farewell. "Good day to you sir, God bless and good luck" and off into the mist on his bike he went. Had I been taught a lesson never to judge anyone or anything by appearance? Within moments, the rain stopped, the mist cleared and the sun shone. The rest of the trip was a great success in terms of my work. To this day I wonder if it really happened. Where did he come from? Where did he go? Did I just imagine it? No matter, my luck changed and the project went well.