From the “Postcards from Pandemia” series, another photograph made on one of my neighborhood walk circuits. This route takes me past a location that I knew very well when I was much younger, and when I visit now it evokes thoughts about time — how some things have changed a lot while others have changed not at all.
In normal times I probably have not been able to approach this bench at this time of day without raising suspicions and concerns, especially when carrying a camera and making photographs. But the entire area was empty since the shelter-in-place orders had closed it down.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist. His book, “California’s Fall Color: A Photographer’s Guide to Autumn in the Sierra” is available from Heyday Books and Amazon.
Dead forest trees silhouetted against snow storm clouds swirling around a granite face
I have written before about my long-term process of trying to find ways to photograph the beauty of dead or burned forests, a subject that I was brought up to regard as a tragedy. For decades, Smokey the Bear told me that forest fires were a wholly bad thing, to be avoided at all costs. Eventually we came to understand and (mostly) accept that fire is a normal and even necessary part of the life-cycle of healthy forests, and in places like Yosemite fires are often “managed” rather than suppressed. Currently in the Sierra Nevada the issue is compounded by the sight of millions of trees that fell victim to bark beetles during the recent drought, and whole forests have died in some places. A few dead trees are a normal part of the landscape, but this is unprecedented in the lives of any of us.
This photograph was made on a snowy day in Yosemite Valley, probably the last such day of the current season as winter turns to spring. Beyond the stark trees, a combination of clouds and blowing snow mostly obscured the Valley’s cliff faces. This photograph illustrates something else I figured out about photographing tall trees some years ago. I used to feel that the way to show the vertical scale of tall trees was to move back and show the whole tree, usually in a vertically framed image. I specifically recall the day when I figured out that there is another way. I was photographing in the coast redwood forest north of San Francisco, where I was unable to move back to get the tree-encompassing distance. I realized that I could do the exact opposite of what I had been doing — use a panoramic framing that does not show the whole tree, but instead implies by absence that subject is too tall to fit in the camera’s frame.
The stark architecture of St. Madeleine Sophie Barat Catholic Church, Trona, California.
I have a bit of history with the California town of Trona, but it has mostly been superficial. I may need to consider changing that. The town is in the far reaches of San Bernardino County, in the desert region between Ridgecrest, California and Death Valley National Park. The entire reason I even know of the place is that it is on the route that I almost always follow into the park. The town has roots that go back to the 1800s, and it seems to be supported almost entirely by the mining/extraction operations that go on there. To this outside, Trona has that utilitarian, dusty, sad, potential ghost town look of so many remote Western towns. I’m sure that some of that impression is the result of my own ignorance, but still…
I’ve passed through Trona annually for about two decades. However I rarely stop, mostly because Trona is either the last step on a very long drive to Death Valley (and I just want to get to DEVA and get to work without delay) or the first step on the long drive home (and I feel little need to stop yet). There isn’t much there for travelers — a drive-in, a restaurant on a side street, a market, a gas station or two. However, with each visit the feeling grows that there is something worth looking at and photographing here, especially in an increasingly urbanized age where fewer people have any experience with such places. So this time, on the way out of the park, we paused briefly and drove around just a bit. I noticed things that I have missed before. (For example, not all of the homes here are abandoned or unloved.) Our final stop before moving on was the parking area next to the St. Madeleine Church. In fact, this was one of the features that first suggested photography here to me some years ago, even though I had not previously stopped. It is a remarkable building, and its brutalist concrete construction and unadorned square shape somehow seem appropriate in this stark desert landscape.
Stark light on an old building on Colin P. Kelly Street, San Francisco
Most often when I go out to make photographs I do not have extremely specific ideas about my subject or even about how I will photograph the subjects I encounter. Usually, and especially with street photography, it is more a matter of tuning in to my surroundings and essentially hunting, conspiring to be in places where I think I might find interesting things, paying attention, and being ready to take advantage of whatever opportunities arise. On the other hand, I often do have some general ideas about the sorts of things that might interest me, and on my way to this morning on San Francisco streets I had specifically thought about a sort of image that might be black and white and which might use rather stark light a bit later in the morning — so when I saw this building on a corner near the train station I didn’t hesitate to photograph it.
What about the name of this photograph? It was simply a practical matter. I usually do not like to name photographs in ways that tell the viewer how to think of the photograph — most often I feel that if the photograph has anything to say to the viewer, the viewer should be allowed to figure that out from the visual content. (Yes, there are some exceptions.) So in this case the choice to use the words on the street sign near the right side of the frame was simply a practical decision… especially since I forgot to look for any other name on the building! However, I did wonder who Colin P. Kelley is/was. Most likely the street is named after a man known for being “one of the first American heroes of the war [who sacrificed] his own life to save his crew” in World War II. (There are lots of interesting little San Francisco streets with unusual and surprising naming histories like this.)
