This year’s photos cross landscapes and time, the eternal and ephemeral. From the spiraling mazes of Southwest canyons to the glowing night sky of the Arctic and a handful of people in between, 2023 was about scale.
May 2024 flow easily and provide expanded horizons.
Thanks for tagging along. xoxo T
My time in Svalbard is rapidly slipping away. The dark is comforting, always there, no matter the hour or weather. There is no need to rush to catch the last bit of the day before sunset. I draw the curtains against street lights.
The moon is back. It rose above the horizon the other day, almost full. It fills the clouds, and the mountains glow snowy bright, rivaled only by Mine 7’s reflected light.
I am ridiculously grateful for a smartphone smart enough to capture the dark. My night photography camera skills are lacking, as is a tripod.
Photos of houses and buildings that aren’t falling into the ground are not my specialty, but it seems incomplete to give the impression that there are no people or infrastructure in Svalbard. This is a company town transitioning into a tourist destination. The coal industry is being consciously closed as the government introduces its green sustainability agenda and levies the draw of the north for those who recognize its rapid decline.
The town is nestled in a valley (read never gets sun even when the sun never sets). The north end of town touches the fjord. To the east and west are high plateaus that climb straight from town, level out, and hold the town between their arms. Uphill, to the south, is a glacier. This confuses me almost daily. I expect glaciers to the north, and going south always feels like downhill, according to Ents, so this is a double cross of my wiring.
Housing is mostly company-owned, apartments and row houses in bright colors are nestled below the avalanche fences on the east side of town and the now-derelict coal shuttle structures. Across town and the river, the church takes the high ground. Although it, too, is in a high-risk avalanche zone, no fence has been built above the church yet. Walking into town from the south, you walk toward the fjord, toward another mountain through the ubiquitous street lights – my arch nemesis the world ’round.
The tradition in town is to take off your shoes and hang up your coat when entering many public places, including the library, where I often work. Like kids everywhere, the after-school crowd rarely remembers the “hang up your coat” part. It makes me laugh every day.
I am endlessly fascinated by ice, water, and clouds. Eternally changing shape and form – solid, liquid, gas, we can see it transform in real time.
Where would we be without it?
The red sails are a tourist gimmick, but the effect is stunning when fog slides around the icebergs creating a shroud of mystery.
Local kids practice their soccer moves on the Astroturf while Disko Bay icebergs, staunch supporters, look on.
Oddly, it’s not called Greenland because of the intensely lush vegetation or the neon mosses of Disko Island. Rather, it was named Greenland as a ruse to encourage Viking settlement. Like many places, it had a name before it was ‘discovered’ by Europeans. The original name reflects the native connection to the land; Kallaalit Nunaat means “land of the people.” From the rich mosses to the columnar basalt and city block-sized icebergs, Greenland is stunning.
Stepping away from the desert for a few months.
Off to Greenland, Iceland, Svalbard. Polar summer, polar night.
The light and the dark; we need both.
Photos to follow. Stay tuned, my friends.
