Size: 18” x 36” with a 1” white border on Hahnemuhle 300gsm cotton rag paper

Signed & stamped in verso

We moved to Oregon in the Spring of 2016. We moved to be closer to nature, to community and ultimately to ourselves. But we struggled, and for 24 months I would drive 1000 miles every month for work. Up and down the Highway 97 corridor I drove, sometimes in deep snow, sometimes in intense heat, sometimes in storms. I didn’t altogether hate it; long distance solo driving has always been something I’ve enjoyed. In the West, long open expanses exist between towns and you’re left to your thoughts. A rhythm develops and you get used to it. You can get used to almost anything.

Then both my parents died in rapid succession, and this drive took on another feeling: emptiness. It turned into an expression of my failure as an artist, holding on to a past for the sake of a paycheck. So I decided to stop going. On the last drive, on my way back north, I pulled off on a long dirt road and drove, and drove, and drove. I went until I was surrounded by storm and rain and sagebrush.

I stood at the edge of this expanse and screamed. I wish I could say it was a yawp in the tradition of Walt Whitman, but it was not. It was a scream of pain and sorrow and emptiness. I shot one image, this image, and stood in short sleeves while the rain poured on me, drenching me to the skin.

I don’t know if there’s metaphor in this, or not. I don’t really care. All I know is this is what I am: a landscape photographer. It’s all I ever wanted to be.

Location: Southern Hwy 97, Oregon

Nikon D810, Voigtlander 40mm lens, 5 vertical stitched frames