Something intriguing happened to me last night while I was out shooting photographs. It was a mental realization about where I want to be.
I was wandering a nature preserve, a beautiful woodland hugging a small river in central Illinois, doing something unheard-of: shooting only digital. GASP. While I’m no stranger to hiking, being alone in the woods walking a trail and occasionally going ten to twenty feet off the trail to get that good angle, I couldn’t help but think about how I’ve been feeling about where I am, from a physical standpoint.
The past two years, I’ve been trying diligently to find my voice in my young years of being an artist. I’ve been shooting hundreds upon hundreds of photos, varying formats and styles, experimenting when it feels right, and staying in my comfort zone for a majority of the time. The important thing is that I am, in fact, experimenting, at all. It’s the experimentation that has been teaching me about what I like to make art of, as well as how I approach a scene when it’s not a composed and controlled scene.
The more I photograph Illinois, the more I feel that I’m reaching a point where I’ve collected enough that represents how I see Illinois right now. In all honesty, I do genuinely love this state and this region of the United States. There’s so much more here than people give it credit for. It’s like an American blank canvas. Or, at least for Midwestern tropes. I feel that I’m getting to that point where that Midwestern canvas is at a finishing point for me right now. And I want to emphasize that “right now” bit. Illinois is my home — all of my family and best friends live in Illinois. I’m always going to be coming back to this state, no matter its perceived “boringness” outside of Chicago.
While I was standing outside of that wooded area, in the small gravel parking lot with small flattened tree stumps that paved the way for hikers and hunters, I was looking at the neighboring corn field in front of me. Something felt right in that moment. I walked to the edge of the corn field, looking on to the lavender sky and the stumps of corn stalks of recently harvested crop. Something about that vastness, that emptiness, that open field felt right to me. I made a few photographs of the field, looking at the tire tracks from the trucks owned by the farmers nearby, the distant trees and soft clouds in the sky. Something felt right in that moment. When I turned around to view the small wilderness behind me, I still saw the beauty of it, but it was like I was sitting on the fence between the familiar and where I should be next.
I have been eyeing a region of the United States for some time now. A region that is rightfully attractive to photographers. The American Southwest — one of the most beautiful regions in North America (and, of course, one of the hottest). From viewing photo books where the American Southwest is a dominant subject, to Google street-view “drives,” to my friends telling me about their experiences and sights from their visits, I developed a keen fascination with the Southwest. The aspect of the southwest that is the most attractive to me is that endless openness. The distant mountains and canyons, the desert and ancient rock that lies below. There’s so much there. It’s the perfect American Blank Canvas.
There is, of course plenty of inspiration from photographers such as Nick Carver, Dino Kužnik, Rob Hann, Simon Nicoloso, and the wonderful and influential Stephen Shore (for a portion of Uncommon Places, being shot in the Southwest, as the book is a survey of the entire US in the 70’s and 80’s). Their work has, no doubt, inspired me dramatically. They’re all some of my favorite photographers working today, dominantly in the Southwest or American West.
The more I work on my photography and think about ideas behind my work and projects I want to do or I’m already working on, I feel that the Southwest should be my next move. The only other location I’ve been considering moving to next is the Atlantic Northeast, near Boston or Portland — but something about the Southwest keeps screaming for me. Something about that desert, the rich history with the American lifestyle and its deep connection with Native American culture. The Midwest is so over-settled, endless farms and small metropolitan areas, it’s repetitive and homogenous. It’s familiar and right now, I’ve had enough.
There’s no doubt that when I end up going to the Southwest that I’ll have a sense of anxiety, a sense of being lost or lonely, a lack of connection with my friends and family. But it would be something new, and it would be for more than just photography. I’m nearing 24 years old, still finding my footing, eyeing masters programs for photography, trying my darnedest to figure out myself as an artist. Knowing full-well that whatever work I make in my 20’s likely won’t get true recognition until my 30’s or 40’s, that my early years are the most important for me as an artist, that these decades of work are important to do just that — find my footing. I need to experiment, travel, go to new places and find my own as an artist. Connect with communities outside of my familiar.
As these days pass in the COVID-era, time seems so slow yet so fast. Us artists are spending more time alone with our work, stressing about needing to make new work, but in fact it’s more important for us to look at the work we’ve already made. See what we can learn from ourselves. It was through this process that I learned about my calling to the Southwest — which, like anything, can very much still change in the coming days.
It’s that feeling that I’ve been looking for. Sitting on that fence between the familiar and the future. A representation of the place I believe I will be going to next. A vast empty land, a blank American Canvas.