“You will know when a project is finished with you”
When a friend shared this piece of wisdom with me, I genuinely thought that he had misspoke. I thought he had it the wrong way round. Surely I would know when a project has come to and end? As it turns out, my friend was right. The project I was working on at the time, “The Downs” told me, in no uncertain terms, that it had nothing left to show me, and we were done.
Just like that.
Done.
No more.
Niet.
Finito.
Fin.
The End.
‘The Downs’ was my first real long-term project. I’m not talking about the Marc Wilson, or Peter Dench kind of project. It’s nothing of such importance, but it was important to me. It was the first time I had considered working on a project made up of more than just a couple of images. This was to be a work, something of substance that I could give myself to. What I didn’t realise was just how much of my time, money, energy and heart it would take.
The idea, I thought at the time, was simple. There’s a large-ish area of land close to where I live, called ‘The Downs’, and I wanted to shoot the location over all 4 seasons. I hoped that I could capture the essence of the place. I thought that I knew it, but I was wrong. I thought that it was a mix of public walking spaces and private agricultural land. What I didn’t realise at the time, was that it was also home to an iron-age hill fort, and an old abandoned, overgrown quarry. There is a water treatment plant there, and is frequented by para gliders, most Fridays. How naive I was to think that I could just turn up when I wanted to, pull out my camera, and just shoot some images. I began to realise, very quickly, that there was more to consider.
Things I love about projects
The focus on a single space
Fresh air
Bird song
My trusty walking shoes
The adventure of it all
Hot coffee on a cold morning
The way the early morning sun reshapes the land.
Those first few visits were misleadingly fruitful. Pleasing compositions would just offer themselves up to me, good light (especially at 6am) beckoned me in, In abundance, the Downs offered hay bales, tracks, cows, sheep, shadows, clouds, grass, and cattle feeding troughs with soft light on the sides.
The process was almost too easy. I knew how to use my camera. I knew how to set it up for good landscape work, and I knew more or less where the good tracks were. I was high with the idea of being a project-based landscape photographer. Added into the mix, is that I shoot black and white, being part of that long line of master photographers who also shot black and white. I was heady with delight. When I look back at those halcyon days, it’s obvious now how ill-prepared I was for the project.
It didn’t take long to realise that so many of the photos ended up just being ‘low hanging fruit’. The easy shots came and went pretty quickly. It had only just turned Spring, and I had 3 other seasons to shoot. Also, I knew how large the land was, but knowing the span, and walking the span are two very different things. it didn’t take long to realise that a big place can feel VERY big when you’ve walked it 10s of times (it would turn out to be at least 100 visits to the same place by the end of the project!). As it turns out, when you dedicate yourself to a long-term landscape project, you have to commit. You have to commit to shooting in the driving rain, the chaotic storms, blizzards, and the incessant heat. There are no easy outs with a project. You’re either in it, or you just a casual volunteer who can come and go as-and-when you please. Not so with the committed. Those dedicated to their project will pack up their gear in the warmth of their houses, and at some ungodly hour will don their boots and choose to leave the warmth, in favour of the image.
It’s just the way that it is.
Once the low-hanging fruit comes and goes, you then have to dig deep, and this will test the resolve more than anything else. The project isn’t done with you, so back out you go. You become driven to make deeper and deeper images. You’re trying to evoke the smell of the place in your work, the feel of the dirt on your fingers, the rain in your eyes as you walk, the cold on your toes as you stand for 20 minutes in a single space waiting for the right moment. You’re trying to convey the warmth on your skin in the early Autumnal evenings, the flies dancing in front of the lens as you set up your tripod. You’re trying to capture the sound of the birds as the clouds drift lazily by overhead. All this and more. You want to viewer to experience all of this, just as you have.
In order to make your work, and you must make all of it or none of it, you will find yourself in situations where you will stand up straight, or balance precariously on a fence, or lie flat on your stomach, or bend yourself into inconceivable positions to get the right angle in the right way. You will sometimes punish your body in ways you never considered before starting out. You will do all of this willingly, because now you’ve gone too far to give up unfinished and unsatisfied. The hunger for the project has not yet been satisfied, and so you go out. And go out. And go out.
But during those countless days, you settle into a rhythm that is purely you. The mind settles down, and you’re able to think more clearly, see more strategically, and start to ponder the different scenarios that could yield a new image or two. You’re ‘in the zone’ now, and there’s no easy way to get out of it.
Spring becomes Summer becomes Autumn becomes Winter. Your shoes are faithful to the task. You’ve walked the tracks in your big coat, then your waterproof jacket, then lightweight jacket, then no jacket, t-short and shorts, then back to your big coat again. A year comes and goes, but you can’t finish because there was no snow that year, and you need snow images in your body of work. And it IS a body of work by this time. You’ve amassed hundreds of possible images, in order to tell your story.
No, there’s no snow, so you have to carry on for another year.
At one point, your car gets broken into, when you’re the furthest point away from it.
And still, you go out - because now, what else is there?
At the end of the second year, you feel the tiredness kicking in. The shoes are put on more slowly, there’s a hesitation before you head out of the door, and you find less and less to photograph. You’ve more photos of cow and sheep than is probably healthy, and yet the one ingredient required to finish remains elusive. It’s not your fault you live so far South of the country that snow comes rarely.
But then, ‘The Beast from the East’ hits the entirety of the UK, and the country is whiter than a bridal dress on it’s special day. Finally. You head out with a spring in your step and make the final few images. You wonder whether you have another year in you.
Things I hate about projects
Tedium
Tired feet
Sleet
The expense
Rude people
Painful knees
Bulls
I can still remember the moment I knew. I was at home, and the sun was shining. I had a rare day off, and my first thought was “shall I go back up there”, and there was a resolute ‘no’ from deep within my bones. Like a boxer with nothing left in the tank. All given on the canvas. I had nothing left. No motivation, no energy, and I could think of literally no other image to make.
I was done with it.
It was done with me.
No more.
Niet.
Finito.
Fin.
The end.
And yet, this was the first of many projects that I have started and finished. The Downs will always remain, for me, a favourite. It was my first, and you never forget your first anything. Eventually, it would make its way into 2 exhibitions, and sell numerous prints (although that should never be your motivation to shoot). My neighbour owns two prints, including one at just over 54” on the long side, and every time I go to dinner at their house, I sit at their dining table and look at the principal image from the project. It’s the one of the sheep, at the beginning of this article.
My closing thought is this. Projects are a right pain in the arse at times, and you learn a million lessons along the way. You should still do them. To create a cohesive body of work around a single topic is one of the most satisfying things you can do. You might sell some of your work, and that is nice too. But, during the life of the project, it is you and only you.
And, you know, there’s something quite lovely about that!
Personal note - I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you for reading these articles. I don’t consider myself a writer, but I am enjoying writing a few of these thoughts down. I often get nice remarks and comments back, and they are always appreciated. I also have the gift to be able to say in 50 words what most people can say in 20. I talk a lot, I know.
But I just wanted to say thank you. Have a nice day
Beautiful piece, thank you.
Beautiful Work