Take a look at Sport Illustrated’s photos from a day of gymnastics. For sports shooters (even a former one like me), this stuff is photographic crack cocaine.
Photographers–especially landscape and documentary photographers–are well known for their early rising, a product of ensuring they are in the proper position to embrace the dopamine-inducing light just before sunrise. In late May, that meant leaving the Westerner Hotel in Chadron at 4 a.m.
As I loaded gear into the truck in preparation for the hour drive to the scheduled location for the morning, I found myself staring at the bench across the parking lot, fascinated with its romantic interplay of light, texture and shadow.
And for a few moments, I stalled my sunrise addiction to make this photo.
The lone stand of cottonwood trees afloat on a sea of plains grass: Irrefutable evidence you are indeed in the heart of the storied Great Plains.
Those who live near such stands of trees know cotton sticks everywhere. In garages, in car radiators, on pets, in air conditioners…everywhere. But instead of seeing it as a yearly nuisance (like many do), I prefer to hold the cotton in a different light, one that fulfills a vital role in the geographic memory of a culture. The cotton provides a sense of place, of essence, that one is situated in the remnants of the American Serengeti.
I know, I know. Give it up with the Montrose church, already.
Number three in a series from the ghost town Jay Em in east central Wyoming.
It’s been a long time coming, but the new brettlerickson.com is now up. I’ve been stalling with the new site for some time. It’s made it hard to offer prints for sale.
But, we’re up and running. There are more improvements to come, depending on how things go. Right now, I’m just accepting PayPay payments as a convenience for clients, but if orders take off, I may add a shopping cart system in the future that also accepts credit cards. But, let’s not get ahead of things.
I watched this young cowboy for a time while I was shooting the Sutherland Rodeo; he wore a junior rodeo championship buckle, and his boots were worn, so I assumed he wasn’t hot from the drugstore.
But the forlorn, aged look in his eyes, in such contrast with the jubilant rodeo crowds around him, drew me back again and again, tempting me to make an image.
No photographic project involving the landscapes of western Nebraska would be complete without at least one shot from Toadstool Park, one of the unique geologic features from the badlands of the area.
A visual threshold for the ranching life in Nebraska: In the distance lies Ardmore, South Dakota.