In a Different Light
This is the inspiration behind my very first photography gallery exhibition:
”In a Different Light”
This collection tells the story of how one local park provided inspiration and growth for my photography, but also how a different perspective helped me reconnect with the place that is so special to me.
(this post only contains a few images as a preview of the gallery. The full collection will be on display at Erie Arts & Culture from Feb 28th - May 31st, 2025 )
In 2018 I dug my camera out of storage and began pursuing landscape photography. Like rummaging through a box in the attic and finding a finger painting or a drawing you made years ago, I was instantly reconnected with a piece of me that felt so long lost. Being born and raised in Erie, Pennsylvania, Presque Isle State Park seemed the most obvious place to go to explore this new and exciting craft. Admittedly, despite living in Erie my whole life, I had really only been to the park a handful of times. And even then it was just to fish, play at the beach, or to attend a birthday party in one of the park pavilions. With 3200 acres of lakeshore, old growth forests and marshes, I felt like a whole new world had been revealed to me. But despite a few iconic scenes, I soon felt limited by the relatively small local park. How many more photos could I take of the North Pier lighthouse at sunrise? How many more photos could I take of the boathouses in Horseshoe Pond at sunset? And how many more photos could I take of the lake from the beach? Eventually the park became all too familiar and my work derivative. And if I didn't care to photograph those spots, what else was there for me?
(drawing of Presque Isle State Park - source)
I inevitably took a hiatus from the park, using my time to explore other places in Pennsylvania and even travelled to some National Parks. These awe-inspiring and epic scenes only exacerbated my issues with my local scenes. Afterall, how could my quiet little “Rust Belt” state park ever compete with the staggering waterfalls of Ricketts Glen, the vast and diverse deserts of Arizona, or the endless jagged layers of the Smoky Mountains? After chasing more and more "epic" scenes, I became tired and burnt out. I put too much time, energy, money, and reliance into these places to bring me happiness; each time reluctantly returning to my "boring", "plain", and quite frankly "ugly" home. Back to "Dreary Erie", that has no majestic mountains, no bottomless canyons, no rugged coastline with towering cliffs or colossal sea stacks stood steadfast against the relentless fury of the ocean. And so, I lost interest in landscape photography. I grew to resent my home for not being "more epic", and my camera became a symbol of failure and inadequacy. This went on for some time, and for a while I had accepted it. That is, until one particular day...
It is a relatively rare occurrence, but a few times a year Erie is covered in a blanket of fog. Fog can completely change the appearance of the landscape by isolating subjects and removing distracting elements, providing an ethereal atmosphere and interesting light, and ultimately transforming familiar sights into a dream world. And on a day like this, while Erie was shrouded in fog, I decided to take advantage of the conditions and returned to Presque Isle with fresh eyes and an open mind.
The world that was so familiar and stale to me was once again brought to life with renewed enthusiasm. Scenes and compositions that I had known so well now felt different and unique. The lighthouse now stood like a beacon at the edge of the earth; its red light a warning to those that dare to voyage beyond its gaze and into the void. The houseboats floated silently on a mirror, causing one to question reality. Not only that, but the time spent away had given me the perspective to realize what made my park so unique. The cottonwoods with their deeply ridged trunks now waved to me with their fluttering silvery leaves as if to say "hey, look at me! We've been here all along." The decaying silver birch that filled the dead bogs stood like monuments to a forgotten time. The dunes in the quiet corners of the park became an alien landscape full of mystery, and the wetlands a place of quiet sanctuary. The few fishermen and visitors I saw now became characters in this fantasy world that had been created by the fog.
Several times since then I have been lucky enough to photograph my favorite place in foggy conditions — each time altering the way I see it. And I feel grateful to have rekindled that love and passion for my local park once again. I realize now that I don't have to travel far and wide to find something beautiful. While majestic mountains can still leave me at a loss for words, and while watching the sun set over the Grand Canyon will always make me grateful for the almost immeasurable chances of my existence, these places, for all the things that they are, will never be my home.
Presque Isle is where this journey began, and I'm glad to say that seven years later, this humble 3,200 acres is where it continues. The work in this series is a reflection of that progress. It is a collection of those things that make it special — that are a part of me. With time, space, and different conditions, I was able to see what I thought I knew so well from a different perspective. By simplifying the world around me, the fog showed me that there is so much I had previously overlooked. In the dreamlike glow of the fog, I was able to see my home from a different point of view. I was able to see familiar places in a different light.
