Note: This is the introductory essay for my portfolio of photos from a recent trip to the central California coast. You can view the full portfolio as a free PDF ebook or as a web gallery.
Right after the holidays, we planned to head to our favorite winter place, Death Valley National Park. As our departure date neared, I started feeling increasingly hesitant about this plan. As I mentioned in our Two Perspectives: Zion National Park ebook, I badly sprained my ankle during that trip, in early November. While my ankle felt a little better with each passing week, it still hurt after doing easy things like chair yoga videos on YouTube and a little unsteady while gently walking around the neighborhood.
One of the very best things about Death Valley is the ability to explore by parking on the side of the road and heading out into the desert. With only a few maintained trails in the park, almost all of this exploring happens by walking cross-country over rocky, uneven terrain—exactly the wrong place for a wobbly ankle. As we discussed last-minute alternatives, heading to the central California coast and maybe dipping into Yosemite National Park for a few days, seemed like the best option. The weather would be fairly mild, the drive would be long but easy, and both spots would feel fresh since we hadn’t visited either place for years.
We sketched out a loose itinerary, packed the truck, and headed to Denver for Christmas with family and friends. From Denver, we headed back over the Rocky Mountains and toward the coast for two to three weeks of rambling around without much of a plan. After a stop for soup dumplings near Los Angeles, we headed north toward the Big Sur Coast. We arrived right at sunset to massive winter waves crashing into the rocky coast, with gauzy pink light lingering over the landscape—an early sign that we made the right choice in terms of destination. The next morning, we headed out to a mostly stormy sunrise at Asilomar State Beach. After a few hours of photographing the incoming swells, watching sea otters ride the waves and hunt for food, and observing all sorts of birds going about their day, we decided it was time to move on. We drove a mile or two down the coast and stopped at the next spot that looked interesting from the car.
Brushstrokes: Pinkish-purple sand formed from the decomposition of garnets on its way to being washed into the Pacific Ocean. Big Sur Coast, California.
About twenty feet from the car, I awkwardly stepped off the slightly raised edge of a piece of wood delineating the trail and my ankle buckled. Arrogantly, I had decided that I did not need my more robust brace for this easy walk and, with a little roll to the right, my ankle fully collapsed into itself. With only weakened connective tissue (not really) holding things together, the same intense pain of the original injury radiated through my foot. After seven hard weeks of recovery, all I had to say was a dramatically exaggerated yet simultaneously defeated, “Nooooo 😭.” We clearly made the right decision not to go to Death Valley but I really thought this gentler coastal terrain would be just fine. Nope!
Luckily, I was getting ahead of myself. With compression from the brace I should have been wearing, ice, and rest, I felt better over the next few days and realized that, despite that initial searing pain, this re-injury wasn’t actually that bad. Not great, but not awful. If I left my heavy bag in the car, I could hobble around and still make some photos on this trip.
Tangles: A mass of kelp at rest. Asilomar State Beach, California.
A Place Laden with History
Dealing with this stubborn injury and the related limitations dominated my thinking for the first few days of the trip, and only when the pain started to fade and I started feeling more mobile did I turn my attention to more interesting things, like the fact that we were visiting a particularly important area in the history of landscape photography. Knowing that we would also be visiting Yosemite National Park on this trip, I continued returning to the question of how, if at all, photographing a place laden with historical significance influences my thinking, seeing, and photographic practices.
Although others had photographed the region before him, Edward Weston moved to Carmel in 1929 and his photographs of the area, including what is now Point Lobos State Natural Reserve, helped define the Big Sur Coast as an icon of the American West. Later, Ansel Adams moved to the Carmel Highlands in 1965, living and working there until his death in 1984, further cementing the idea of this region as a particularly important place among nature photographers.
Light + Shadows + Waves: Waves, light, and shadows along the central California Coast.
As I was reading about the photographic history of the area, I came across an SF Gate article about, “Why Ansel Adams never photographed his Central Coast home of Carmel” (although this photo prominently displayed on the Ansel Adams Gallery website offers a quibble with the word “never”). The article features a discussion with Mary Alinder, one of Adams’s assistants and the author of numerous books about the Weston-to-Adams era of photography. A notable part of the discussion follows:
Adams had equal reverence for Weston’s eye, and he felt his predecessor in Carmel — Weston died there in 1958, four years before Adams moved in — had “seen [the area] in the strongest way possible,” Alinder said.
“People wonder why [Adams] didn’t make a lot of photographs in Carmel,” she said. “You don’t think of Ansel Adams in Carmel photographically, but every place he looked there was already Edward’s ... and he would leave it with Edward and Edward’s vision.”
It is impossible to know if this is a complete recounting of the reasons why Adams did not create a larger body of work of the Big Sur area since the quote represents another person’s interpretation his thinking, shared decades after his passing. Thus, what follows below is my reaction to these ideas in the context of my photography, not a critique of Adams, his photographic practices, or anyone who agrees with such an approach. There are many ways to practice the art and craft of photography, and I certainly do not think my way is the best way but is rather the approach that works well for me.
Points of Convergence: Two patches of moss grow toward one another on the bark of a redwood tree. Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, California.
The part of the article quoted above stood out to me for two reasons, and I will address both of them here because they relate to common refrains among photographers that always irk me. The first: I do not believe that there is a single “strongest way” to see a place. One particular photographer’s vision might especially resonate with me or you but this resonance does not mean that their vision is stronger or better compared to others working in the same place.
The second: The quote suggests that a thoroughly photographed place no longer holds the potential for self-expression. According to Alinder, everywhere Adams looked around the Big Sur Coast, he saw Weston’s vision, and it stopped him from pursuing his own photography of the region. If you spend time around landscape photographers today, you will hear judgy variations on this idea all the time:
[Insert photographer name] owns that place so what new could I bring to the table?
That place is over-photographed and cliché. There is nothing left to photograph there.
I will not be able to create any unique or original photos because it has all been done before. That place is all icons, all cookie-cutter scenes.
It is totally fine if a photographer personally prefers to practice their craft in lesser-known places or places without much of a photographic history, for whatever reason. I understand this preference, as I often seek it out for myself. This preference, however, is just a preference, and is not necessarily a superior way of pursuing photography.
Sea of Anemones: A mass of anenomes at Pfeiffer Beach along California's Big Sur coast.
We are decades past Adams’s time in this region and in a dramatically different era of photography. With the current context in mind, does it make sense to follow his lead on this topic as we are charting our own path today? No, I do not think so. Most accessible scenic landscapes are firmly entrenched as stops on the social media circuit, and many of these places are already closely associated with prominent photographers and their bodies of work. To hold firm to the practice of avoiding such places just because they are popular or already thoroughly photographed seems incredibly limiting given today’s context.
I’ll take a brief detour to Death Valley to further explore this dynamic. In our photographic community (meaning people we know in person, not just online), we have a number of good friends who all have impressive portfolios of the region. While we do not have the same sort of relationship with any of them as Weston and Adams shared, our associations are close enough for comparison. In these instances, I would never consider their interest in and commitment to photographing Death Valley as a reason to avoid the landscape for myself. Instead, I find it important to consider each photographer’s work as their unique contribution to the photographic record of the place, thoughtfully consider how their interpretations of the landscape might overly influence my own, and pull all these threads together as encouragement for me to more deeply explore, and hopefully strengthen, my own connections to the place and my interpretations of the landscape.
Most importantly, I do not think that any one of us has “the strongest way of seeing” that particular landscape. In any vast natural landscape, like an expansive national park or a long stretch of coastline, there are still a lot of ideas and places to be explored, and there always will be into the future as concepts about place, creativity, and photography as a means of self-expression continue to evolve.
Frilly Edges: Low-growing algaes growing on the edges of tidal rocks, backlit by the setting sun. Asilomar State Beach, California.
An Inward, Not External, Focus
Furthermore, I do not view photography as a competitive enterprise or zero-sum game but instead as a way to explore how a landscape resonates with me. My primary motivation, the force that compels me to photograph, is that the act of photography helps me see and understand the natural world more completely, and tune into the connections that enrich my life. With these motivations in mind, the idea that Weston had seen the Big Sur Coast in the strongest way possible is plainly out of sync with how I approach photography because it relies on comparison and hierarchy. If photography is practiced primarily as a form of self-exploration and learning, as it is for me, it doesn’t matter to me how inspired or visionary someone else might be or have been.
By placing one person’s way of seeing at the top of a hierarchy, the competitive aspect of photography is elevated over photography as a means of expression, introspection, and exploration. With this portfolio, I am not trying to compete with any other photographer, including Weston’s photographs of the place he knew and cared for deeply. Instead, this portfolio is simply an exploration of the scenes, subjects, and moments that resonated in a way that felt worth remembering, and is a means of sharing those moments as a collective interpretation of my experience.
Constant Motion: Winter waves batter the rocky shore along the central California Coast. Point Lobos State Natural Reserve.
ICONS, UNIQUENESS, AND ORIGINALITY
From an engineering standpoint, the Bixby Bridge is impressive and, as bridges go, it is visually appealing. During our time on the Big Sur Coast, we passed by this most iconic location on multiple occasions and each time, photographers were swarming around the “best” angle, and many of them looked like they were thoroughly enjoying the experience. Choosing to photograph an icon like this is another area where judgement seeps into landscape photography, and many of the arguments come down to subjective assessments about the importance of uniqueness and originality.
The proliferation of icons like this one, along with the crowds they draw in, is a major factor in dissuading some photographers from ever spending time in broadly popular places, even though such places always—always—have quieter corners to explore and enjoy. And when it comes to deciding how we spend our time, we have a choice in the matter. We do not have to stop at the icons just because they are there. We can instead focus on those quieter corners.
I generally do not have any interest in photographing an icon like the Bixby Bridge but I did have a very specific photo in mind for the trip—an icon of a different sort. Years ago, I saw a photo from Floris van Bruegel of some colorful pebbles at rest in rock pockets. The scene stuck in my mind as something I’d like to see and photograph one day. Essentially, this photo subject, although not as well-known, is equivalent to the Bixby Bridge. I saw a photo that someone else created and I want a version of it for myself.
Little Mountains: Winter waves roll up a beach along the central California coast.
After some online research, I knew where we could start the search for the rock pockets. We failed during our first attempt but an inconspicuous sign in a parking lot gave us enough of a clue to find them. We luckily had one more sunrise in the area so we headed out—and found them! The photography conditions were a bit complicated, with heavy rain and the tide coming in, but the experience was one of my favorites from the trip. The tafoni rock formations were much smaller than I anticipated and also much more beautiful. The finely grained rock, the honeycomb pattern, and perfectly smooth pebbles came together to make such a pretty scene, and I was so happy to see it and be able to appreciate it in person.
Two words matter very little to me when I consider my photographic goals: unique and original. I don’t care much at all if any of my work could qualify as either. My photo of the rock cubbies below is clearly not original nor unique but it represented a mentally challenging, satisfying, and fascinating experience in nature. If I was concerned about uniqueness, originality, or avoiding popular places as top priorities for my work, I would have missed out on the chance to explore a particularly interesting area, learn about geologic weathering, breathe in the cool sea spray for a few hours, and take a photo that I really like.
Cubbies: Tiny pebbles at rest in pockets of heavily weathered tafoni rocks along the central California coast.
Approximately 1.3 billion photos are uploaded to Instagram every single day, and many of those feature landscape scenes from across the globe. With accessible natural places so thoroughly explored, I think it would be silly to avoid an experience like I had in finding the rock pockets just because someone else had done it before me. While the majority of my photography is simply about showing up at a place and wandering around, I sometimes also find joy in experiencing iconic scenes, both Instagram-iconic and otherwise, for myself. I feel the same way about visiting and photographing other very popular places—Iceland, Death Valley, Yosemite Valley, and the Big Sur Coast. While I may not have much to contribute in terms of true originality, I still find value and significance in creating photos like those you will see in this portfolio because doing so helps me connect in a personal way with these places and share the some notable moments.
Might others have a “stronger way of seeing” or might I see the vision of others all around me when I visit a well-photographed place? Yes, for sure. Does it matter to me? Not at all.
Sarah Marino is a full-time photographer, nature enthusiast, and writer based in southwestern Colorado. In addition to photographing grand landscapes, Sarah is best known for her photographs of smaller subjects including intimate landscapes, abstract renditions of natural subjects, and creative portraits of plants and trees. Sarah is the author or co-author of a diverse range of educational resources for nature photographers on subjects including composition and visual design, photographing nature’s small scenes, black and white photography, Death Valley National Park, and Yellowstone National Park. Sarah, a co-founder of the Nature First Alliance for Responsible Nature Photography, also seeks to promote the responsible stewardship of natural and wild places through her photography and teaching.