Farewell South Carolina
My time as a naturalist at the Francis Beidler Forest has come to an end. Looking back on my journal and browsing through a full portfolio of images I can say with some degree of confidence that I made the best of three months with Audubon. If I were to quantify this time it would break down to something like this: three full moons, two seasons, twenty-six guided canoe trips, one music video in the swamp, four large-mouth bass, one plane ride, five visits from friends, one leech, one completed guidebook, one redesigned brochure, eighteen swamp stomps, and 6,000 photos.
In one last effort to convey to the world the importance and sanctity of this little oasis, I have compiled a video highlighting some of my favorite moments I shared with the swamp. Enjoy.
Flyin High
There are many ways to see a swamp. You can canoe. You can kayak. You can walk on a boardwalk. You can slog through the water. You can even hop from cypress knee to cypress knee. Or, you can fly.
Buddy Wehman, a retired pilot lives just outside Harleyville, SC and keeps his 1939 Fleet biplane in a hanger at the Summerville airport. After months of looking at aerial Google maps I wanted to see for myself the braided channels and towering trees of the 1,600 acres. I love anything that changes my perspective. My main motivation, however, was to document the dichotomy between old growth forest and clear-cut lowcountry.
On Monday morning I met him at the airport and we waited an hour for the fog to dissipate. To kill time he dissected the simplistic anatomy of a biplane and told me about the time the propeller nearly severed his femoral artery. All alone, he used a belt for a tourniquet and drove himself to a hospital 30 minutes away. I figured I was in good hands should our plane crash into the Hudson, or in our case, the Edisto. Any fears or uneasiness about flying in a seventy year-old plane quickly vanished once I put on the leather hat and goggles.
Buy One Get One Free
The Art of Howism
Not only is Harleyville home to the world’s largest remaining stand of virgin baldcypress swamp, this small town also contains an equally rare artisan: Jason Knight. When I first met Jason, I watched helplessly as my hand disappeared into his oxidized iron-maiden grip. Though, I wouldn’t call them hands; rather, they are more like hunks of anvil wrapped in rawhide.
Joining the prestigious ranks of only 109 other people in the world, Jason is a Master Knifesmith. Working completely from scratch he hammers, forges, and bends Demascus steel into unimaginable works of art. Recognized internationally as the Knight Method, his style borrows from the ancient Chinese art of folding the steel on top of itself to reveal a mosaic pattern of light and shadow which explodes from various points along the blade. He showed me a portfolio of knives that have been sold to collectors on six continents and I marveled at the intricacies and deadly elegance. At first glance, my appreciation for his craft stayed on the aesthetic level since I had no previous knowledge of knife making. It wasn’t until he invited me to his shop and showed me how, that I could fully understand the genesis and genius behind each finished piece.
Recently, I have become obsessed with the word “how,” especially with its application to the creative process. Much like Jason’s knives, I work with many elements to create one final product. When looking at one of my photographs, viewers automatically receive the who, what, where, when, and why of every image. Hidden on the other side of the view plane, however, sits the methodology, the artistry, and the personal. Unless accompanied by an article or caption, viewers must infer for themselves as to how the photograph came to be. Precisely at that moment, when the audience is forced to look inward and interact with the piece, we as photographers have created art.
Critics often talk about the fine line separating documenting and reporting, or taking pictures and making photographs. Nature photographer Nancy Rotenberg calls this going “beyond the handshake” of the common snapshot. Regardless of its name, we can distinguish the two because of this illusive dimension. I used to tell my students in Honduras that with photography it’s more about what you decide to hide from the viewer than what you include. As artists and natural historians we have all the power to lure you into our little worlds through such simple tools as composition, happenstance, ethereal lighting, or jarring perspectives.
I do not claim to have mastered these techniques, but I’ve become increasingly cognizant in the field while experiencing the evolution from snapshot to photograph. I want to give you a glimpse of this process; a behind-the-scenes pass so you can see all that goes into the making of a single printed image. And perhaps this is counterproductive. Maybe the whole appeal is not knowing. But maybe, as I did with Jason, you will see that it’s in the filings, the discards, and in the “how” where artistry resides.
There’s a log out in the middle of Mellard’s Lake and when the water level drops gators and turtles use it as a sunning station to thermoregulate during the day. Since the alligators here don’t see people too often, they are skittish and won’t let you get too close. I love watching them through binoculars, their mouths forming a long grin. So I wanted a gator photo that portrayed life on a log.
At first I had the camera rigged to a wireless trigger system where I could fire the camera from my house but this would only work half of the time. I would take the transmitter out with me when I took groups out paddling but too often we ended up in the photo. That’s me in the closest boat. Also, when more than one gator climbed on the log it would tilt the camera and throw off the alignment of the horizon.
So I decided to cut the sky out of the photo and just concentrate on the log. I got rid of the radio triggers and replaced them with a timer which would take a photo every 15 minutes during the day so I wouldn’t have to continually return just to take one photo. This allowed for gators to get accustomed to the camera and the constant clicking of the shutter. It wasn’t long before they were right under the camera thankfully not hitting it with their tails.
The camera would take pictures all day. I wrapped a plastic bag around the body and left the lens exposed. While this might not be the safest thing, I’ve always told myself that the minute my camera stops me from taking a picture I need to rethink my priorities. A little sprinkle never hurts and in fact causes some dramatic imagery.
In the office it became a daily amusement to find what the Gator Cam would come up with. 11:30 AM proved to be the best time for the sun’s position in the sky and the amount of reptiles sunning on the log.
Finally after a few weeks, I checked my camera to find the image I had envisioned. A reptile’s paradise and a grinning gator.
So for the second series, I found this Prothonotary Warbler nest on a sweet gum tree just right off the boardwalk. The mom and dad kept coming back with grubs, spiders, and mayflies to feed its young. Typically the chicks will only stay in the nest for 10 days so I had to work fast in order not to miss this opportunity.
So I tried a telephoto first and although the idea of a nest and some chicks might be there, I wasn’t satisfied with the message. So I went for a different approach.
Mac Stone Photography 