I’m beyond thrilled to share that I will have a poetry book published this spring with Turnstone Press! I am so grateful to be given the opportunity to work with such a supportive team, and with a press I have long admired as a Canadian writer.
Pre-orders are now available: https://turnstonepress.com/books/poetry/a-road-map-for-finding-wild-horses.html
This season, we eat the last of the green
grass in July. August is yellow and parched.
Fires surround us and we travel hundreds
of kilometres to avoid the acrid smoke that
coats the inside of our nostrils, hangs from
our manes like burdock burrs.
The sound of frogs faded in May.
We pass through streams as though they
were sunken bridges.
Our hoofprints are simply clouds. Dust.
As I journey along this path of equine portraiture, I am often struck by certain colour tones, cloud formations, or even lighting nuances that I am not completely conscious of in the moments of snapping the shutter. I am admittedly sometimes more concerned with trying to get myself positioned at a good angle, or gaining the horse's attention so her ears are up, or even trying to avoid falling into a large puddle. (In this case, it was making sure I didn't get stuck in knee-deep snow... ;)
When I begin the process of editing, I become immersed in other moments the camera captures. Some poses we have attempted on purpose, as I encourage a rider to 'lean forward! Chin up!' Many times this results in laughter on all sides, as I move myself around the subjects, calling out 'Looks amazing! Hold it there!" as though the horse's body were not in constant motion and the light were not continually shifting. However, many are moments you cannot plan, which happen simply because of the energy between horse and human. Subtle glances, touches from a nose to an outstretched hand, fleeting instances of deep love, joy and connection. And always, a deep sense of beauty.
Each pair of beings come with their own set of experience and emotion. My favourite part is seeing how this translates into a photographic story. Those who are still immersed in getting to know one another, excited and bubbly and somewhat nervous. Or those who are confident and comfortable, full of trust and ease, having shared a lifetime of adventures; arenas, hillsides, relationships, heartbreaks, accomplishments. I am always honoured to be a part of creating snapshots of these memories.
Lately, I have been doing a lot of thinking about my purpose behind the journeys I undertake, in order to spend time creating images with the wild horses. As much as I love the photographs that result, with each trip it becomes more apparent that the pictures are just an added bonus. They are a way for me to remember the feelings in that moment, the appreciation that arose from quietly being in the same space with the horses. I share these not just because I want people to be aware of their presence in our landscape, but because I believe there is a unique kind of communion between wild horse and human; one that brings us back to a deep-seated knowledge that gets lost in the busy hum of our daily lives.
To me, horses are much more than just a tool or a means to an end; they are companions and fellow travelers on this soul-filled journey we call life. When we visit these wild herds with intention, and are open to being led deeper into ourselves, the messages they carry can be powerful. My hope is perhaps one day, looking at these photographs will lead someone to recognize that these animals exist as a place where we can revisit our relationship with the land, and reflect on how we are living with it; a way we can celebrate the intrinsic value of our mutual existence.
Just finishing another wondrous retreat (this time online!) with the Banff Centre. We are so lucky as artists to be able to spend time creating there, even if it is from a distance from one another this year.
When you have a conversation about writing, and come away with several poems in mind, you know it really hit home.
I was reminded once again me what messages are offered, and how I can gently receive them:
where to sit with(in our bodies and with the land)
what to write with(in our bodies and with the land)
how to feel with(in our bodies and with the land)
When we sleep, we allow ourselves to be open to the suggestions of our subconcious. That inner guide which can provide us with insight into the deeper recesses of our own soul.
Today, I read the words 'lean into what you are good at.' I wanted to add: lean into what makes your heart sing. I have been taking photographs of horses since I was a little girl, and it never ceases to be the place where I feel most at home. After studying photography in school, and a time of thinking I might make a career as a hired photographer, I always find myself going back to simply exploring; sitting alone under the setting sun and the stars, and playing with the energy of what happens when you let light in. Noticing how nature interacts with us, and attempting to recreate it in camera. For me, there is no such thing as a perfect photograph; there is only the emotion we remember when it was taken. This practice is one way I express that inner self.
What makes your soul happy? What are you leaning into as the full Cold Moon approaches at the end of this year?
I spent an entire afternoon with this small band. By the time I left, the sun was going down, and the bugs were starting to swarm, despite the cool autumn air. The entire time, I was constantly struck by the gentle grace the stallion had, his intimate interactions with his son, the way the lead mare held all of them in her space. It was all so congruent, so effortless. They seemed familiar to me, as well.
It is only now that I'm home and able to more closely examine these images that I realize I had taken photos of this stallion and lead mare two years earlier, almost to the day. Back then, there was no foal in the group; in fact, they were living in a band with other stallions. This all really speaks to the fascinating dynamics that are involved in equine communication. There are so many assumptions that we are told about horse behaviour that arise from domesticated horses living in less than ideal conditions, when in reality, their relationships are as intricate and emotionally detailed as our own.
Part of my intention as I practice photography with horse and human is to explore the way we learn to communicate; not just with words, but with feel. To be conscious of how we speak, through touch, and even more importantly, how we listen.
What do we observe? How deeply to we settle in and truly allow the thoughts and cares of others to enter our awareness? What sensations do we experience?
I too, have become more attuned. To the ways I desire to capture light, to how I am influenced by the painterly mapping of a canvas. To sensation and thought and the physical work of creation.
As I continue expanding this practice, I continue to endeavour to capture the intimate details of our physical and spiritual connection with horses; the touches, the embraces, the love.
I've been playing around with composite image making, layering and altering photographs from my trips to visit the wild horses. I find the process helps me make sense of the many layers of meaning found in the juxtaposition of wild animal, nature, and the effects of industry.
This composition is inspired by the wildfire evacuations that have been so frequent this spring. The image of the refinery was taken on May 30, 2019; the day an air quality advisory turned our sky a thick yellow-orange from smoke. I've titled it 'Imminent.'
A brand new foal my daughter and I discovered during a day trip in the foothills in late May. This was a rough spring, but the energy that comes from these wild youngsters always breathes hope into things.
Sometimes I try things, and they work. Sometimes I try things, and they don't.
Winter can be a good time to visit the wild horses, because the snow often tells tales about them. This is a photo I took while exploring, following one of the trails that led from the road into the forest. Initially, the trails meandered through the trees; several horses had stopped to explore, paw the snow, nibble grass beneath the trees.
As I moved further into the forest, however, the trail became increasingly directed, the horses were following closely behind one another, and it was clear that none of them were stopping any longer. The energy in the air had changed, and instead of feeling relaxed I now felt uncomfortable.
Then I realized the horses knew I was following them, and they were very deliberately, and quickly, running away from me. I was a threat. So I stopped, and took this photograph of the path headed down the frozen river as a reminder that there is never a good reason to force things.
I rarely seem to come home with pictures of our wild horses running, or fighting, looking fierce, or out of breath. Mostly, my photographs are of scenes like this one: a small family engaged in their daily routines. They may be playing, or napping, but usually eating. It tells me that they are more like us than we often think about. They wake, and the rumble in their bellies serves to tell them what to search out first, then when they feel content, they enjoy each other's presence, soak up the sun.
In fact, the horses spend the majority of their time searching for sustenance. Their hooves are quite well designed to clear away snow, in order to reveal the grass lying dormant underneath. There are some who argue that they compete with other animals in the area, such as deer, elk, and moose; when in fact, the horses expend their energy creating open spaces full of exposed grass, that is then available to animals whose cloven hooves are not nearly as suited to digging for this treasure. The relationship is symbiotic.
Horses are a species unto themselves. Their mere existence compels a human desire for 'management,' as that has been the driving story between us and them. Yet, their presence in the wild inspires this yearning to see them free, that has always underwritten our story. We know they are meant to be this way, we feel their wild blood coursing through their veins when we sit astride their backs. Deep down, if we choose to, we recognize how thin the rope really is, how much they accommodate, how much learned helplessness we impose on them.
Currently, the question of managing the free-roaming horses here has come to light in the media again, as the five-year moratorium on their capture comes to an end, along with a trial of contraceptive experimentation. Advocacy groups have vastly differing opinions on what should be happening next, and personalities butting heads means important energy is wasted. The biggest threat to their existence is the giant cattle lobby, as ranchers here use the public lands the horses exist on for grazing, and pay a pittance. They, of course, insist the horses are a threat to food supplies; meaning, the free food supply for thousands of cattle. From this they conclude that round-up and slaughter is the best solution.
It has been well-documented that wild horses in fact play an important role in the ecology of wilderness landscapes, particularly those that are heavily treed, such as ours. One of the positive impacts is natural wildfire protection, something which should be at the forefront of the interests of this government, given the very real threat climate change has brought to our forest fire season. Unlike cattle, horses will naturally graze on rotation, rarely staying in one place for long, which allows grasses to naturally replenish. They also will graze on the grass and brush under trees which normally are fuel for fires, serving as natural forest floor caretakers.
The argument that horses in the wild have no natural predators is often tossed about. Again, this is categorically untrue. Anyone who spends time with the horses has found remains, seen the wounds, noticed foals gone missing. Here, wild horses are a food source for predators such as mountain lions, bears, and wolves. This is true anywhere free-roaming horses exist, except where alpha predators have been run out of existence. They are as much a part of the cycle as any other animal living in the wilderness.
All of this is why I love my domestic scenes of horses. It is them in their most natural state, living as evolution designed them to; in communion with the land. Receiving and giving in ways we have forgotten. Their wild presence in our fields and forests should be a point of pride, one we hold up as a model for how to reclaim the ways human and horse can interact on a completely positive, mutually respectful level.
It is the stories that keep me coming back to these hills.
This small band, for instance, was the most memorable encounter. These two yearlings were just babies when my daughter and I met them last summer. On a warm July evening, we were gifted with several hours among a large herd of mares and youngsters; some of them also were foals I had met the previous spring. It is amazing to see them grow, not just in size and stature, but in the relationships they form with other horses.
So when we came across these two this spring, I was especially excited. They were not shy, however, and one came quite brazenly up to me, for several minutes nuzzling the end of my lens cover. I’ve had times where young ones in particular have come so close that it feels as though you might touch one another, but I’ve never experienced a wild horse initiate an interaction that deliberately. Normally, I would much rather watch from afar, and give them the ability to decide whether to allow our presence, so as not to disrupt them. I will admit that after some time it became too intense and I left the space, rather than encouraging behaviour that could potentially endanger a young horse in the future. Being overly enthusiastic to interact with humans does not always serve wild creatures well.
However, this was not even the most moving part of finding this small crew living together. The stallion these young ones were accompanied by was instantly recognizable. I gasped when I saw him, for it had been two years since I first sighted him, far higher on the mountain than they were now. I had written an essay after that solitary trip, titled, ‘The Stallion With No Ears.’
He and I had come across one another on trunk road during the peak of a hot summer day, the only two beings on that particular hillside. I would never forget how he constantly turned back to watch me, in my imagination inviting me to follow along, even though I was certain it seemed as though he was pinning his ears, so maintained a very respectful distance. It was only by accident that I had come close enough to realized it appeared both his ears were at least partially missing, either damaged in vicious battle or by a winter deep freeze.
I had not seen him since.
Seeing him here, with his own family band now, brought me more happiness that I could have imagined. He was shy, and wanted no part of the interaction with us. He remained an enigmatic figure.
This kind of story, of resilience, and common bond, is what makes these horses such a special part of our landscape. It is exactly the kind of story that keeps me coming back.
It was a longtime dream of mine to see and photograph horses in the wild, and from my very first encounter I had a new and abiding passion. It didn’t matter that I often spent rough nights camping alone, or hours being bitten by mosquito swarms, I always came home feeling invigorated and in love with life all over again.
For a few years now I have been visiting and documenting the bands I manage to discover, collecting both images and words to try and convey their unique beauty, as well as their relationship with the landscape. Each time, I not only increase my skill at photography in the wild, but expand my knowledge of equine language. Family bands, lone stallions, foals grown into yearlings; all of them have their own unique personalities and lessons to share. Every moment holds its own magic, and it feels as though the photographs I receive are gifts being given. It instills a sense of deep gratitude.
Alberta is a place of contradictions. We are connected to the land, in both physical and intangible ways. The weather is simultaneously extreme and unpredictable, the geography dramatic and diverse. Our history encompasses both cowboys and social movements. These wild horses, all at once rugged and graceful, embody the province they live in. To me, they inspire, and this collection will continue to grow as I continue to return to be witness to their existence.
Ghost River, renamed Morleyville by settlers, is the site of southern Alberta's oldest pioneer settlement. This portion of land in the Stoney reserve contained the Morleyville church which, prior to the fire in May 2017, was declared a provincial historical site. Surrounded by undisturbed native prairie, the remains of the fire were still standing on this cold windy day in January 2018. The entire site is now completely gone.
The church was constructed in 1875 by the Methodist mission, guided by John McDougall, at the same time that treaties were being planned for the Blackfoot territory in southern Alberta. Two years after the church was completed, Treaty 7 was signed, and under its terms approximately 130,000 km2 of land was surrendered to the government. The treaty negotiations are widely known to have been fraudulent, and due to the lack of land management by the government, many of its signatories wound up witnessing the very last bison hunt in the area. The Stoney-Nakoda, traditionally Ĩyãħé Nakoda, were assigned to the reserve nearby the church. A residential school was located in the nearby town of Morley from 1886 until 1949.
The Stoney Nakoda First Nations are hopeful that reconciliation will mean the land the church once stood on is finally returned.
Here it is, the first day of the new year, and I'm already not doing what I had planned. The thing is, I'm trying to not let it bother me. My intention for 2019, and to be honest, the last couple months of 2018, was, and is, to make a practice of letting go of expectations.
I have a tendency, as we all do, to make lists and then proceed with checking off the items on the list. House clean? Check. Dinner made? Check. Dentist appointments, picking up cat food, helping kids with homework...check. When the essentials are done, we add to the list. Organize the pantry? Sure. Make a post on your blog every single week? Well, the intention is there. Become wildly successful as an artist and quit your day job? Umm...
The problem I find is that the list is never quite done. It gets longer and longer, and starts to become something else I haven't yet accomplished. It becomes a chore, and the well-meaning parts of the list become lost amidst the pressure of simply checking off the boxes. I love having things organized in my house, but should I be doing it because it is on the list, or because having a tidy closet helps things run more smoothly? Taking photographs and immersing myself in editing is something I find intensely enjoyable, but should I be doing it for others, or because it enriches me creatively?
I've never really been one for new year resolutions, instead focusing on intentions. However, those can create their own pressures. The expectation then arises that I am working towards these intentions, and instead of motivating me on towards becoming bigger and better, they just become more items on my never-ending To Do list. I'm realizing that at this stage in my life, as a working mom to three teenagers, as a woman with a variety of interests and talents, I'm becoming averse to expectations, and drawn to creating more ease.
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”
There's no reason to see creating ease in our lives as a lack of activity, or a passive response to stressful situations. In fact, it can be a very deliberate action. As a verb, ease is to "move carefully, gradually, or gently." Apply this to relationships, whether human or animal, and we are being respectful and thoughtful, leaving space for others to be themselves, while at the same time maintaining our own boundaries. Apply this to work, or creative pursuits, and we are contemplating how we can not only offer service, but what we can receive in return that will also nourish our own lives.
This is not to ask, 'What's easier?' We can all agree it would be easier to stay in bed in the morning, than get up, make lunches, drive the kids to school, go to work, etc. Since I have to get up, and drive the kids to school, however, how can I move carefully, gradually, and gently in order to create ease? How can I do this at work? With personal growth? In my photography? Carefully considering things when asked to do them, instead of rushing headlong into the expectation of 'yes.' Gradually working towards a goal, instead of falling prey to the expectation that it be achieved *right now.* Being gentle when it comes to self-criticism, or the ever present "comparitinitis" (which as an artist I find to be one of my biggest challenges.)
Finding ease is to choose what will ultimately create the most opportunity. To not shirk hard work, but to work for a purpose that is fulfilling to body and soul. As the new year turns over, I'm hoping I can remember to remind myself of this, when I most need it.
This project is a series of wet specimen portraits, photographed at the Natural History Museum of London. The photographs are put through a photopolymer printmaking process, whereby a negative is created and transferred to a photopolymer plate. These plates are then printed on cotton rag paper, using a letterpress.
The title, ‘Shadows of Things,’ came to me while I was working with the photopolymer process during a residency last year at the Banff Centre, where I was lucky enough to have a week to learn the use of the equipment and spend the remaining time experimenting. Part of the technique involves the washing away of the light-activated resin which is exposed, leaving the faint trace of the image on the plate. It is only when printed that one can see how well the exposure has worked. In the meantime, you work on trust, that the shadows you see in the polymer are indeed what you have tried to create from the original photograph.
