If I felt like I’d hit a creative rut and was lacking inspiration for photographing my sliver of isolation in Chicago , the past few days have provided a much needed respite and reset. I’ve been up in Northern Wisconsin, a place that connects me to my family and its history and to the outdoors.
This place is familiar and steeped in memory, but it also possesses a boundless opportunity for discovery. Following the curve of the shoreline, I’ve been taking a kayak out a couple times a day, each time with some new result: finding pitcher plants shriveled from winter, a beaver dam not noticed on a previous paddle, following a knocking sound and spotting a woodpecker. Both on the water and in the woods there is space for exploration and fresh observances, even in a place that feels so known to me.
The same applies with photography. As I’ve gotten older and more immersed in cameras, photography, for me, is an instinctual way of capturing the beauty that exists here. It’s an attempt to interpret, respond, and appreciate; a way to engage and interact with my surroundings and to make discoveries. Although, it always feels a bit like holding sand, I’m not sure any photo can quite encompass this place. In a way, taking photographs up here feels especially like capturing time- sunrises, sunsets, and the shifting light of a day to elements of the seasons themselves, budding branches in the spring or the snowy expanse of frozen lake in winter. Time is ever-present here, yet it’s a cycle with a natural cadence that’s not rushed or anxiety-inducing- as it sometimes feels to look at a clock. Time has felt especially warped during this pandemic, both expanding and contracting, but in the Northwoods, the weather shifts and winter fades to spring and spring prepares for summer, and the rhythm continues as normal.
I’d never been here alone and I wondered if I would be scared, the result of an active imagination and consuming my fair share of horror films set in the woods. Yet, as the end of my time here approaches, I haven’t felt afraid. I am the only human in this particular stretch of land, but I am surrounded by life. Cricket chirps and bird calls, buzzing hummingbird wings, mournful loons, and diving beaver- the daytime chorus inevitably replaced by that of the nighttime.
I haven’t gone stir-crazy in my apartment or felt trapped during these weeks of isolation, but my world has felt diminished and much smaller, as I’ve primarily limited myself to my apartment and the sidewalks of my neighborhood. One of the greatest aspects of being up here is simply having space. My thoughts soar, no walls or ceilings to trap them, as I hike amongst birch and pine and, sitting on the dock looking at seemingly billions of stars, I am reminded that I am a tiny element of a huge world.
I am immensely grateful and lucky to have this place of refuge and to have the ability to take a break from the city on my own. I am appreciative for this time to insert myself into the rhythms of the woods and to be in a place of beauty and space for thoughts, even if just for a few days.
