Residents of New Mexico are no strangers to a phenomena that often occurs as the sun is about to rise or set over the high desert sky. This phenomena is characterized by a brief but magical moment that reveals itself. Sometimes the magic takes the form of a crisp, surreal light that blankets everything in sight, as a pastel hue coats the heavens. Other times, a fiery blaze appears on the horizon as high elevation clouds drop their contents – in the form of funnel-shaped streams, falling gently over the earth’s surface.
As a photographer, I’m often obsessed with capturing these moments. This obsession isn’t convenient as it usually means getting up early or staying up late and driving long distances to be in the right place at the right time with my camera gear. Adding to the challenge and inconvenience is the fact that there’s never a guarantee that the magic moment will present itself. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t, depending on atmospheric conditions, like cloud formations, wind, moisture, etc.
This is a story about a period of my life when I was particularly engrossed in chasing the New Mexico light. My medium was a large format film camera, common for professional landscape and architectural photographers at the time. I would often make notes of picturesque scenes I encountered in my travels around the state and then imagine how those scenes might look in the early morning or at sunset. Then – came the task of getting myself and my camera gear back to the noted location at the right time!
My camera of choice was a Toyo View Field camera.
The idea of a photographer hunched over an old school camera on a tripod with a black cloth draped around their head seems now like such an ancient concept, though these cameras are still in use by professionals and serious hobbyists. These cameras typically take a film size that’s 4 x 5 inches and up to 8 x 10 inches or larger — my camera used 4 x 5 inch film. The photographic icon, Ansel Adams was famous for his large format images of the American West. Photographs captured on large format film can be greatly enlarged and still retain their clarity.
While digital photography is catching up to the clarity of a large format camera, for purists, it’s as much about the process as it is about the outcome. Shooting with one of these beasts is a time-consuming, expensive, and cumbersome undertaking that only a purist could love. The once large selection of film has diminished to a handful of limited, expensive options. As of late, a pack of ten 4 x 5 sheets of Kodak color film was around $60. So, $6 to take one photo and that’s before you have paid for developing and printing!
The whole process of large format film photography is one of vision, work, delayed gratification, and even delayed disappointment. It’s an experience that is more correlated to real life as opposed to the modern-day photo process dominated by artificial intelligence and quick gratification, often resulting in images that are more “perfect” than reality itself.
Taking a photo on a large format film camera requires its own moment of contemplation. It’s a very zen and beautiful process. There’s no click, click – and you probably got a good shot. You either got it or you didn’t – and you won’t know until the film is unloaded, sent to a lab, developed, and then returned. And for photographers, the moment newly developed film arrives back from the lab, everything stops! In that instant, there’s nothing more important in life than seeing the results of your work.
During this period of photographing the New Mexico landscape, I was shooting mostly color transparency film, just like the old 35 mm slides, except much larger. Because the images were positive you would see exactly what you got unlike negatives where blacks is white and vice versa.
This is really a story about 5 photos. 5 brief, magical moments captured in the Land of Enchantment. Moments that were the result of a convergence of light, intention, and serendipity. Each image is presented here exactly as it was recorded in the moment with no alterations.
It was early March, and one of my first outings with my new Toyo View Camera which still had that “new camer
a smell.” Film cartridges fully loaded and ready to go, I decided to venture up to the foothills of Albuquerque in the late afternoon as the sun was about to set. I didn’t have a specific scene in mind but knew that the evening light against the Sandias which had recently received a dusting of snow had the potential to yield something great.
I parked in a residential area, slung my gear over my shoulder, and started to hike into the open space. Reaching an outcropping of moss-covered granite, surrounded by hibernating vegetation, I stopped and took in the moment. Although the encroaching city was just a short walk down the hill, it felt like I was in the middle of nowhere. The western horizon of New Mexico lay before my eyes and the only thing I could hear was a faint howl of wind blowing the icy cold remnants of winter on my face.
I set up my camera and focused in on the Sandias with the yucca in the foreground. As the sun moved closer to the horizon, its emanating golden hue changed quickly. I took about 10 shots, all with varying degrees of color.
This image has a particularly strong meaning for me as it was my first experience shooting with large format color, positive film. I still remember the first time I viewed it on my light table after the film came back from the lab, it was magic.
There was a chapter of my life when I would frequent the are near the village of Coyote where my parents had a cottage. The dominant geographic feature of this region is Cerro Pedernal. “Pedernal,” which means flint in Spanish, has an abundance of this type of stone which has been used by native people over the centuries to construct tools and arrowheads.
Georgia Okeefe’s retreat, Ghost Ranch, has a clear view of this iconic mountain, which explains why it plays such a prominent role in many of her paintings. From the north, Pedernal takes a butte-like shape, but from the south, it has a more pointy form.
My parents’ cottage was on Mesa de Poleo, just up the road from Coyote and just West of Pedernal. The cottage had a loft with windows and a clear view of Pedernal. The loft was my favorite place to sleep. I would often wake up early, make coffee, and watch the magical sunrise over Pedernal.
One day, I was driving along state road 96, the main road leading to Coyote from Abiquiu Lake. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the silhouette of a dead cedar tree which was still standing about 75 feet away from the road. It was the most beautiful outline of a tree I had ever seen. Rising majestically behind it was Pedernal. I immediately had an idea for a photo. The image would be framed by the outline of the tree on the right and Pedernal roughly in the center. To top off my vision for this photo would be the morning pastels in the sky created by the sun rising behind Pedernal.
Getting this image would become a mission for me. The challenge was that I wouldn’t know if the conditions were going to present to create the pastels in the sky that I had envisioned for this scene until I was there and ready during that brief, magical moment. Capturing this shot would involve getting up around 5:00 in the morning, driving to the spot, hiking with my equipment, jumping a barbed wire fence, and setting up the Toyo View. It took 5 attempts, but I finally got it. When I first saw the image, I thought it would be assumed that the image was heavily photo shopped, because how could these colors possibly be real?!
It was a freezing cold early March morning, and I set out with my camera gear to explore the historic village of Galisteo, just outside of Santa Fe. Driving through the village, I came across a dilapidated adobe home with an old Ford Fairlane resting next to it. The light from the rising sun in the east hit the scene perfectly. I set up the Toyo View and took a few shots at varying settings. I was really pleased when the developed film came back from the lab. The orangish hue of the car and adobe home set against the black and grey remnants of winter almost make the image look like a black and white photo that has been colorized. I named the image “Galisteo Memories.”
A couple years later, I attended a dinner party at an artist friend’s home in Santa Fe. I brought some of my photos including this one to share with people. As I was sharing this one, a man I didn’t know said, “Hey that’s my house!” He pointed to the faintly visible home in the back behind the coyote fence. He then said, “Do you know the story about the car?”
The story went: The car belonged to a young man who grew up in the adobe home. The Ford was his first car. The young man went off to war in Vietnam. He never came home. His father was so heartbroken about the loss of his son, he could no longer live in the home with all the memories it held. He left the home where he raised his fallen son and moved to Albuquerque. Decades later, the car still sits in the same place it was when the father left.
The man at the party actually remembered the father’s name which he told me. I looked him up in the phone book and found a record of that name with a valley address in Albuquerque. I contemplated calling to see if it was in fact him, and if so, to see if he was willing to share about the car, the house, and his son. I didn’t, deciding it was best to let it be….
There’s an iconic diner in Albuquerque’s Northern UNM area called the Lucky Boy. It’s played a backdrop in numerous movies and TV shows. For a period of time I lived close by and would frequently drive by it. I always imagined a photo of the Lucky Boy with dark clouds in the background.
One summer during the monsoon season, I just happened to be driving by the Lucky Boy when a particularly big storm was moving towards Albuquerque. The storm was coming from the north and held dark, ominous clouds. The restaurant faced south and the southern light was still beaming down on the front. The elements for a great photo were in the making, but there was limited time and I didn’t have my camera gear with me.
I ran home, grabbed my gear and headed over to the Lucky Boy. Fortunately, I had film cartridges loaded and ready to go. I quickly set up the Toyo View and took several photos. I literally had just a few minutes before the storm clouds started to encroach on the radiating beam of light. There was a tremendous gust of wind which blew my camera over but fortunately I caught it before it crashed into the pavement.
The storm ended up being pretty devastating for Albuquerque, causing numerous downed trees, intense rain, and power outages. It was dubbed the “Green chili hurricane.”
The developed image came back from the lab and I was more than thrilled with “Storm Over the Lucky Boy.”
It was the late summer, during monsoon season, and I decided to explore the base of the Sandias with the Toyo View. I hiked up into the foothills and eventually veered off the path, climbing into the rocks. I didn’t know where I was headed, just guided by my intuition. As I hiked and climbed, I was pricked by the occasional protruding cactus while being careful not to startle any rattlesnakes. Slightly out of breath from the hike, while carrying a heavy load of camera gear on my back, I sat on a large moss-covered boulder and took in the moment. Close by, the beautiful colors of blooming cactus, Indian Paintbrush, and other wildflowers were on brilliant display. Off to the west, the sun was quickly making its way towards the horizon, while a summer rainstorm fell gently over parts of Albuquerque.
After a few minutes of sitting still, my heavy breathing quieted down and a sort of silence took over. As the silence settled in, it was subtlety overcome by a commotion of faint noises.
Slowly the noises grew louder.
The sounds emanated from the rocks and high desert vegetation. There were clicking, buzzing, and whirring sounds — all chatter from the insects of the Sandias. In the backdrop was a faint howl of wind off the mountains. The stillness was occasionally interrupted by the dash of a chipmunk or the dart of a lizard.
In that moment, it seemed that the high desert had come to life.
The flora and fauna of the Sandias had formed a symbiotic dance of color, sound, and texture, each made more beautiful and pronounced by the presence of the other.
In all of the years of living in New Mexico, I had never experienced so much life in the high desert landscape. It wasn’t that the desert came to life that evening, it’s just that I sat still long enough to experience it in a way that I never have. In that moment, I had a passing thought wondering what other things in my life I hadn’t sat still long enough to fully appreciate.
The sounds of the desert can’t be conveyed in this photo “High Desert Grace,” but hopefully the words here give a sense of it.
And so it is with New Mexico. You can’t assume anything about this land from a “quick pass” of its seemingly rugged, dry exterior.
To really understand New Mexico, to experience its magic, to know the land and its people, requires presence, humanity, and an open heart.
Give it those things and it will reveal itself to you. And while doing so you will probably learn something about yourself.
