With fog lingering offshore, the late day sunshine illuminated this very vernacular fencing near Oliver’s Cove, Fogo Island, Newfoundland. This vertical design repeated itself in the landscape often in a maze-like pattern, to the sea.

Roads and paths without a clear destination are a metaphor for my creative life. There is a deep yearning in my soul for home, which is heightened when I visit remote communities. Perhaps it is the sense of community; stories of people working together to move houses from one site to another, to haul boats for the winters rest or to launch them in the spring for the fishing season. In remote areas with extreme conditions the bonds of a community are truly a shield against life and death.

The term ‘cultural landscape’ is a clear muse for me. Who built these fences; who tended the gardens, pulled the seaweed from the beach on horse drawn sleds, or hauled the buckets of beached capelin for fertilizer? The traditional house, uninsulated from the winter cold with curtains, blowing in the wind through closed windows still provided safe nests for large families and fond memories in later years. What appear today as relics are clues to earlier times of survival and ingenuity.

I once encountered the term ‘farweh’ (thank you Manuela Thames), which is a longing for a faraway place, a kind of nostalgia or wistfulness. This perfectly describes my attraction to places where others have very deep roots. I envy them, having a geographic home that is tied to previous generations, stories, customs and identity. But is home limited to a patch of earth, or can it be a mystical connection that is threaded through many places that are tied to the past? Whether I am in a Newfoundland outport, the faded Narragansett Beach town of my youth or in an Italian hill town where the passages and walls hold many secrets, the same feeling, the longing for a faraway place of the heart, exists. It is never quite reached, but always beckoning….I am at home on that long journey.

I’d visited this old soul circa late 19^th century located in St Martins New Brunswick back in 2021. At that time, I was attracted to a couple of worn doorknobs on an exterior wooden door, but it did not communicate the feeling I had for the subject…nor did I take the time to identify that feeling.

For the above photo, I had plenty of time to visit this old friend that waited for me. I have returned three times in three different kinds of light; afternoon, morning, and rain. Each situation changed the mood of the subject.

This was the first opportunity I had had in weeks to photograph with intention. Distraction of house sales, apartment moves and a major art festival had stolen my personal time for discovery. I was wearily emerging from a state of non-shooting, non-exploration and non-awareness. Seeing this old yellow barn with an explosion of purple flowers passionately rekindled my awareness.

The barn’s former owners had stripped the interior of wood, to burn during the long New Brunswick winter, leaving the structure unstable and vulnerable. The entire building could come down in the next big blow, as evidenced by its concave walls. The new owner did not have the resources to restore it completely, replacing only the back wall which was in danger of collapsing. The barn remains not as an eyesore, but as a reminder of its history.

I was on my knees, changing filters when I glanced up to see this arrangement. It was important to include both the window and the purple wildflowers. The dynamic angle has differing lines of energy with the leaning flowers and receding clapboards. Including the sky gave it a sense of context while looking through the window shows the gaps in the horizontal boards of the interior wall. The juxtaposition of new growth leaning away from the ruins of a wooden structure seemed a metaphor for the seasons of life itself. Drawn in by the patina of texture, weatherbeaten decay and vernacular, I was inspired to spend time and connect with the old barn and its story.

This final resting place for a vulnerable remnant of another time, held fascination for me…I continue to explore the why of its importance. Perhaps I am a conduit for these old forgotten places that once had well defined purposes, saving in a frame the photographic evidence of a soon to be bygone. I was grateful for the opportunity to revisit an old friend in this season of its existence.

In a room otherwise bereft of furniture, sat a lone chair. Diffused window light softly bathed the tattered upholstery; shadows fell diagonally onto faded peeling wallpaper. In this silent space, quiet save for the occasional passing car and distant lawn mower, there was a fullness of presence where the past still lives. I am inspired by the words of Wright Morris “…any room that has been slept in is not vacant anymore.” Left behind, the chair reminds me of lives that have vanished, to which the chair served a purpose.

Black and white enhances the starkness of the subject and lends an air of time suspended; the eye is drawn to light that softens and caresses. This image feels like a portrait, not only because of the vertical orientation; it feels like the chair posed for me. An everyday object was abandoned to the effects of time. It still had a story to tell. It spoke; I listened.

Coincidentally, I’d been amassing a list of keywords for a class zine/portfolio assignment, and this very subject had been front of mind. Images that seemed to come to the forefront encompassed interesting subject matter, light and a feeling of intimacy as if the subject and I were having a conversation.

I looked at the qualities of this image and began to create folders and then printed contact sheets of the images.

Categories of these words were divided up into 4 categories:

Triggers – the draw - (decay, light, vernacular, architecture, abandoned, overlooked, change, anachronisms, mystery, curiosity, things that are overlooked, mundane, old items that have a story to tell)

Subject/object/symbol – icon or narrative (doors, tunnels, facades, mundane objects, palimpsest, mirrors, forgotten, obsolete items that have a story to tell)

Metaphor – the unseen yet present (portals, journey, paths, vanishing, spirals, anima, entropy, imperfection, timelessness, mystery, seeing through)

Emotion the feeling; – why I care (vulnerability, abandonment, dignity, awe, discovery, poignancy, wistfulness, yearning, presence)

In selecting certain images, the above criteria were present not in one or two ways but overlapping; being drawn to a subject was only one element. There had to also be consideration of light, and intangible metaphor that transcended the visual aspect and communicated an emotion.

Here are some examples:

In all the above images, I am drawn to a subject generally though its aging via time and conditions. Once I see the subject, I search for that one element that carries a symbolic theme that transcends the entire structure. As I grow in my vision, my approach may change but has always been in controlling the narrative via perspective, point of view, light & shadow. I find it interesting to note that my work seems to be evolving away from a documentary approach to one of a more personal nature.

The metaphor and emotions are very consistent from the day I made my first meaningful photograph of a crumbling textile mill. The wanting to preserve a relic, finding beauty where others do not and a connection that defied words but was heart felt.

Doing this exercise was a liberating experience. I look forward to creating more encounters with images that look and speak the language of Cindy Wilson.

Boldt Castle is a testament to love and tragedy. This stone edifice, in the heart of the St Lawrence Seaway, was never inhabited. The owner bought Hart Island and constructed a castle for his beloved, only to have her die before its completion. Work was halted immediately, and the hulking edifice was left to the elements for over 70 years.

The Thousand Island Bridge Authority was gifted the castle in 1977. Steadily, restoration and construction continue.

I was fortunate to visit the castle in September 2025. The above image is a lower-level entry portal leading to the pool and spa area. I love a secret passage…and almost never fail to enter at my own risk.

At first, there was nothing remarkable in this stone vestibule. As I paused in my exploration, the entryway revealed another ‘trigger’ for me, the aliveness of light itself. The simple triangular wedge of light contains volume, texture and form. It feels like a visitor with presence, lingering but impermanent. The oblique angle of the illuminated path created a tactile quality on the brick and stone surface as if I could reach out and rub my hand over the roughness. I could imagine echoes of hard soled shoes reverberating in this silent space.

In choosing to make this scene in a vertical/portrait orientation, I perceive and emphasize the stability of the space. The processing in black and white carries the metaphor of timelessness; through the release of a shutter, it is an eternal moment frozen in which the light exists.

The special presence of light caused me to contemplate and admire this quiet elegance. I had the opportunity to feel and express my intimate connection to the transitory but brilliant nature of light.

We have escaped the routine of our short winter days to spend a night in a historic local inn, reputedly haunted, complete with hidden stairways and spaces for the underground railroad. What fun it was to explore the low ceiling timbered rooms with large fireplaces holding cast iron pots above wide planked floors. Whispers of the 18^th century, creating visions of colonists bedding inside after a hearty meal, their horses tethered in the barn, swirled from the paneled walls. On a desk, in a dimly lit corner of our guest room lay a stack of two books.

The above image feels silent, timeless and intimate, exactly as I felt. I was drawn to the visual simplicity and of the story told, not only in the pages. These books had a personal history, the worn spines spoke of being cradled in many hands. As in a dream vision, I imagined nights of reading by the soft light of brass votives with wax melting unevenly in an intimate circle of light.

In capturing my connection to these objects, I chose an aperture that would create the sense of intimacy and softness of the lamplight. Only the title of the top book is in focus. There is a sense of timelessness created the choice of black and white which also carries with it the silence of that one moment of time.

In reflection, these books that contain wisdom, imagination and words conjuring characters who pass through time, are now decorative, despite the deep insight of their author. Objects that are not efficient or technologically advanced are relegated to the metaphor of nostalgia. This is an emotional trigger for me; that wistfulness for a simple uncomplicated past. In my images, this takes the form of a lost or forgotten object. Like these two books on a desk in the corner of an old inn, traditional objects have been stripped of their function and retired as quaint reminders of the good old days. Such is the fate of ‘Our Mutual Friend’.

I’m a sucker for technically perfect images. But, a technically perfect image is often not as compelling as one that has a story as an attractive element. Consider these two images.

Oblique

Frontal

This decaying barn found on a recent road trip, was located on the side of the road in upstate New York. The two photos were taken on different days with different lighting conditions. The barn ‘presented itself to me’ as my kind of subject matter and it wanted to be photographed.

As I choose which image best represents the emotion I felt at the time, I am torn by what I really enjoy visually in a photograph; lots of contrast, sharpness, texture, and detail. This is juxtaposed to an image not possessing of these qualities, but its poetic nature is also attractive, holding a mystery in its depths. The flat light in the oblique point of view allows for a tonal range that reveals both the outside and interior. This would be difficult to achieve in a single exposure with the sun beating on the front of the structure (as in the frontal view). One is technically pleasing to me, the other tells a deeper story and invites exploration.

The point of view varies between the oblique, which allows the interior of the barn to be visible and the straight on vantage point. The oblique is a more interpretive rendering of the building, interested not as much about the elevation but the mystery inside. There are many places for the eye to journey. The poetic emerges as the shadows of the barn’s interior invite further investigation and curiosity. There is a story contained in the depths.

A horizontal frontal viewpoint is a definitive documentation of the barn exterior. Its viewpoint does not invite, standing strong like the façade in a wild western town. In this horizontal we see though to the sky beyond, but the perspective is compressed, robbing the image of depth.

There is metaphor in the orientation of the images; the oblique possesses a vertical towering strength, while the front horizontal with its symmetry stretches across the frame in a harmonious flow. In both, the barn is photographed from a respectful distance, imbuing a sense of dignity and inner strength.

Both images convey the feeling of timelessness inherent in a black and white photo. The object in the photos is the structure, the subject of the photos is the abandonment, the casting aside of that which was once purposeful. In reflecting on my images, it is the spirit of the ruin that I connect with. In standing before this barn, I feel a sense of curiosity and awe. It is in sensing the vulnerability of this structure, connecting with the depth of this emotion, that makes the photographing not so much about perfect documentation, but the poetry of the image.

I seem to be moving away from straight documentation in my images. An element I am that is becoming more appealing to me is towards looking to capture more than the elevation of the façade. In choosing the oblique I am finding more beauty in the oblique image than the high contrast image. I want this to be a new path in my artistic expression.

Photographing ghosts; elements of the hand of man abandoned in search of something newer, shinier, promising an easier life has been a constant theme since I first picked up a camera. What is left behind contains stories and testimonies that life was once lived here. As a beginner, I called these edifices ‘heroic’, as they resisted the forces of nature and gravity trying to bring them down. A building can’t be a hero, but it can contain echoes of what once was.

Finding these places is a kind of homecoming, a familiar thread in my work. I simply cannot drive past a collapsing barn, vacant mill or remnant of a previous existence without taking notice (and a photo). Intuitively, my approach is with dignity and respect of these markers of the past. I feel an empathy for their being left behind, mirroring my own scars.

In looking at three examples of this thread, I see many consistencies. There is, as mentioned before, the similarity of subject matter (the objects in the images). Processing the images as black and white carries the metaphor of timelessness, hinting of the stories once told. Emotionally, the objects feel abandoned yet resilient. The vestiges captured resonate with a heartbeat still vibrating. I like that there is tonal and textural contrast, emphasizing the timeworn texture and layers revealed by the strong light in which they are photographed. There is a sense of mystery; the shadows do not reveal. Change occurs even in the span of an exposure; the structures continue to assimilate into the surroundings, encroached upon by overgrowth.

At the center of my vision is the act of preserving what remains of our past. In capturing these artifacts with integrity and authenticity there is empathy that after their service, they should be honored. This is a healing connection, my efforts to repair a world that is broken. In my bringing attention to relics of our past, perhaps the viewer, too, can see the lessons from which we can learn. In their imperfection, beauty still exists, as there is still beauty in the world around us.

Why did I choose this image to reflect upon? In a barn, exactly two years ago to the day I am writing, this plastic jug spoke to me out of the darkness. Why the wait? Perhaps my expectations were focused otherwise. I’d walked past the scene at least three times before I stopped to observe, feel and capture. Because of the rather mundane subject, I waited to print and exhibit the image. The object is not beautiful but has a quality of light that elevates the jug into something special. Usually, I operate under the pressure of producing an image that would be liked, a transcending beauty that would stand on its own. The longer I considered, the more the jug began to exhibit a sense of anima. I wanted to humanize the glowing object. It was watching and waiting to be appreciated. Everyday day, just before sunset, the sun swings into position, a passage of light streaming through the rain and dust-streaked panes. Only in the starkness of winter is there this light. Until the vines sprout leaves, the jug will be bathed in this warm late day sunshine.

A new journey began with an image. Tattered layers of plywood lifting off a shed door blossomed into a project of documenting vernacular wooden structures like those on farms. For five years, I was attracted like a magnet, to the subject, my compass drawing me to rural parts of Southern New England. Here were open spaces and structures not yet bulldozed by developers. My initial interest was in visually preserving, documenting and saving a way of life that was vanishing. In the dairy industry alone, in fifty years, the number of operational farms had dwindled from 400 to eight.

Photography projects also provide parameters for visual growth. After the initial image, where the ‘eye candy’ of the structure has been recorded, more can be explored. These anachronistic, traditional ways touch my heart. Different angles, getting closer, changing light all provide opportunities for additional, more personal work. I examined the shapes and textures of their structures; I observed what was left behind. The vibrations of activity silently resonate in the walls. With this ‘Vanishing Farms’ project, my awareness of light, space and spirit have been explored and heightened. As a result, in the passing through various structures and chambers, I have learned to pay attention to objects that might not have attracted me previously. Like this glowing plastic jug, elements of the mundane are now lifted to a special place.

This image, although with an obscure subject, has a much deeper significance and connection to me. It is an example of how art is a personal experience. If it moves one viewer towards a shared emotion, then its arrival is right on time.

Out of three pieces submitted to the South County Art Associations’ juried annual photography show, ‘Luminous Glow’ was accepted.

For more images of farms with their vernacular architecture, please visit my website page that houses the project:

https://www.cindywilsonphoto.com/p748543345

These two images taken moments and yards apart express totally different messages; which one is ‘right’? The left side image is a portrait of a placid scene, a boat patiently waiting to be boarded, ready to carry out its next mission. The image to the right is more metaphoric; the small boat lies dwarfed by the overpowering size of the landscape. In each, the serene calming blue tone is punctured by the red of the skiff.

The same object, two totally different images. I remember wishing my lens was longer to isolate the boat. Dodging rain showers along a coastal road with my usual “stop the truck” I thought the scene to be serene, calming. But which carried my feeling of the moment? The fact is, neither. Both images share a sense of composition and balance, good technique and execution. Beyond this, was there an authentic emotion present in these images?

I question if it is possible to remember exactly what we were feeling in each moment we stop to capture a scene. As with many things, memories are filtered and may be enhanced/distorted over time. An image with the distance of time can change with interpretation, potentially conjuring a new emotion , a new metaphor. For example, the pair of punt (punt – a small Newfoundland workboat) images reminded me of my 2007 image “Morning Stillness”. As I commanded “stop the truck“, I saw a similar scene unfolding (with a less intimate distance and feeling) that isn’t quite the same as the simple and reflective quality of serenity ‘In Morning Stillness’. The circumstances (light, stillness, subject to camera distance, time of day) are very different. Are the more recent images no more than pleasant seascapes or do they carry a deeper emotion?

In the making of this image, I stayed with the object of the image. As I worked through ‘sketch images’ the essence became more clear. This small punt positioned against the vast sea and sky is incredibly vulnerable and isolated. Based on my intuitive sense I made the truest composition possible through choices regarding my positioning, the placement of the boat in the frame, orientation, and the camera settings used. I have created two different interpretations of the same scene. The attachment I felt towards the two newer images rode on the successful coat tails of ‘Morning Stillness’, without the intimacy and magic.

I have the habit of not reviewing my photographs immediately upon returning from a trip. I need an insulating period between the making of art with its expectations and attachment to a place, event or momentary excitement and the evaluation of the merit of the photo. Does it carry my message? Maybe too, I am hoping there is a diamond in the rough made unconsciously without the expectation of ‘success.’ Two years later, I feel a different connection.

Which is ‘right’? I am torn because each photograph of the punt today carries its own meaning in the composition and technique. I am a different person today than when I made the 2007 image. What comes out of this is a growth not in making images, but in asking newer, deeper questions. As a jumping off point, these ruminations serve as the basis for examining new trajectories and awareness.

There is no right or wrong in art. The more important question is, does the image convey the intended meaning? Moving forward, asking this can refine our message by pausing and capturing a moment with authenticity, so the intended emotion stays consistent with time.

My camera is a passport, an excuse to follow a dirt road for miles, to a speck on a map. This time the land abruptly terminates at the sea. Meet Cape Anguille (literally means ‘a place to launch boats’), the Westernmost point of land of Newfoundland. This vast glacial meadow lies between the mountains and a bluff rising over the sea.

This place is remote not desolate, Among the grasses interspersed with wildflowers, swaying in a light breeze and salt air I encountered this post. This post was once part of a line of fencing with supporting wire to keep animals and unsuspecting humans from walking over the edge. Its isolation is a form of resistance against the unrelenting pull of the rusted wire and the occasional ‘Wreckhouse Winds’ (said to have once blown a train clean off the tracks).

In traveling to remote places, I am journeying to the edge of the world, back in time. Here lies a sacred thread, that to this explorer seems so close, yet so out of reach (thank you Tom Petty). It winds through old barns, abandoned homesteads and beached boats dragged up on the shore. Each has a purpose, holds a story worth listening to, should an explorer pause to accept the opportunity

What is the story that floats on the breeze…the nature of the epiphany? A true connection is an exchange of emotions with a subject. I am drawn to the inner strength of this fence post, not to be pulled down even when expectations, and the world around it crumbles. The flame of self-certainty, remnants of purpose remain. I can visualize the same inherent spirit in me. What matters deeply can only be seen by the inner eye, and I feel it on this day, standing exposed, an affinity connecting me with this leaning fence post still tied to the past which has passed it by, resisting forces that try to bring it down in the future.

As I walked among the sheds, stacks of traps and boats in this little harbor named ‘Cow Head’, it was as if I had the entire world to myself. Only the sounds of the breeze and breaking waves broke the stillness. Scattered nets, single fishing gloves and pieces of driftwood lay on the dirt paths. Along the shoreline, large fishing boats rose up on poppits, their sides rust stained, and scraped bottoms ready for a new coat of paint. Smaller boats securely tied to rocks and small pilings had been pulled ashore resting in the sand and tall grasses.

I didn’t think that creating a straight photographic document of the scene would represent what I was feeling. Why am I drawn to these outports with their little harbors strewn with small lone boats? I feel an empathy towards that which has been left behind and wanted to recreate that sense of intimacy. Choosing to make a portrait of the brightly painted bow isolating it from the background made it come alive, as if waiting to resume its purpose. I imagined its days in the ocean, saltwater breaking over its bow; this vessel that allowed a fisherman to safely make a living. Fish would be squirming on its deck, pulled aboard by red cracked and calloused hands, gripping a single thick line jigged over the side. Finally, tying up to a dock to offload the fish in barrels hauled ashore and into the back of trucks heading to market.

When the season ended, those same hands and strong backs hauled the punt onto the beach. Who built and manned this vessel that now lay fallow, grass growing around the hull, left behind to bake in the summer sun, hearing the whisper of the sea, without feeling the sweet saltiness holding it afloat. Yes, the boat is safely ashore, but how long must it wait? I give my subjects these emotional attributes, granting them anima. Everything has a soul, and this is my connection to the small outports, rich in human history and tragedy, embodied in the symbol of why the ports were settled in the first place…to go fishing.

In my mind, I am hoping that the owner of this punt left with the promise “I’ll be right back”, and that once again, the punt will ride the swells, its bow held high, carrying a fisherman out to the fishing grounds, and safely back to Cow Head.

To view photos from my 2024 Newfoundland travels, visit this link:

https://www.cindywilsonphoto.com/p577790920

While traveling on back roads of America, I find signs to be an interesting subject to photograph. Whether large advertising billboards or small hand painted warnings, there is humor and humanity to be found in their content and style. Businesses advertise in bold colors with iconic illustrations, be it cheese, tires, or TV’s. Signs stretch over the sides of barns, are fading on brick buildings (palimpsest) or stand free in fields. In common, all have unique ways of calling us to attention.

Each discovery honors the individual who created and positioned the words. For example away from box stores and highways, one is told that the road has ended, both in words and icon. This version of the vernacular; authentic everyday aspects of local culture, is balanced in resistance of institutionalized control.

My images celebrate the ingenuity of people in an age that emphasizes homogeneity and efficiency. In “The End of the Road”, the sign is juxtaposed to the dirt road which ends abruptly before it hits the water. I find the sign itself to be interesting in design and construction, but the warning in context completes the story.

When words won’t do, illustrations will. The octopus icon found at a sharp turn of a coastal road warns of deep-water dangers; of denizens waiting to swallow your car should you poorly negotiate a turn. In eye catching humor, the message reads loud and clear.

In another North Carolina campground/marina, you’d better watch your language. The juxtaposition of the rules sign with the reflection of a child’s bicycle, protects the family atmosphere. And you’d better keep your clothes on!

As I travel in my hometown, I’m always on the lookout for a sign. I have come to regard ‘no trespassing’ as ‘welcome ‘Cindy’. Even if the sign tells me I am not welcome, the picture of the sign itself is always worthy. Knowing that pockets of individuality still run strong even in times of conformity my photography, in this way, keeps my unique vision and adventure alive.

In shuffling through the many options for an image on which to reflect for this post, I came across ‘Dad’. It didn’t become ‘Dad’ until I looked more closely. Right there in the center, the side lighting created two letter ‘D’s’ out of the handles, while a short loop of rope resembled the letter ‘A’.

The image dates to a time where nothing was more fun than crawling around the floors of an old textile mill. One day, by chance, there was an open door leading into the boiler room on the ground floor of a mill stationed along the banks of the Pawtuxet River. In the darkness sat a large tank positioned under the heavy wooden floors, pipes, and ductwork. Layers of metallic paint peeled from its surface, the metal underneath oxidized with rust and age. This image is one of hundreds I have taken in old industrial sites.

Where does my fascination come from? There is a secret life in abandoned places that speaks of past mysteries. How long has this once powerful unit been silenced? How much more time will pass before the building is razed or repurposed? Who were the people that worked here?

Being a mill brat from an early age, the smell of machine grease and wooden floors live large in my subconscious. My imagination makes objects like this boiler come alive. With my camera, I have a reason to venture into such potentially dangerous, vulnerable, and private spaces.

The box of photo thumbnails holds a key to what inspires me. Coupled with writing, the clues to who I am and why become clearer. Sometimes, images are created without a reason except a subconscious attraction. I keep those that resonate within reach, with the knowledge that when I am ready, the words will come.

I’ve been reflecting on the mysteries inherent in any creative work…what is the source inside of me, the creator, and why is the subject matter chosen? How successfully the artist bridges the connection between the source and the object, the more authentic the work.

This image ‘Empty Facades, Coxsackie’ is not new, but one that has lingered in a folder in my archive. The town of Coxsackie, located on the Hudson River between Albany and New York City, was once a commercial and transportation center. It is a sleepy town that progress has bypassed. In days gone by, a wharf used in ferrying cargo across the river ensured the importance of the town. The streets of the business district are lined with two and three story brick commercial buildings like the one depicted in the image above, indicative of the economic strength and wealth.

Visually, I used the straight on point of view to emphasize the repeating yet varied rectangular shape of the windows and doors. Light from the late day sun had cast shadows creating recesses and depth. The choice of processing the image as a black and white enhanced the underlying structure without the distraction of color.

Each rectangular portal is unique in content. It is not possible to see into any of the windows; all the doors are closed. There is a feeling of abandonment, yet the image speaks of the human spirit despite the exclusion of physical bodies. Walking by the buildings, I could not help but feel everyone in town knew I was exploring.

What does the architecture say about the culture/economy of the heyday? Was the ground floor a series of awning shaded storefronts with living quarters above? Was there similarity in the daily lives of people who lived there; waking at the break of day, defined by their jobs only to return in the evening for dinner? My curiosity compels me to ask these questions of my subject; the truth of the mystery may never be uncovered, yet I am drawn to explore and capture the unknown.

The parts of me that are slowly being uncovered are like the mysteries behind the facades of Coxsackie. The wordless communication, the search for what is beyond the doorway of perception is the source of the vision; the object in the frame, the subject, is me.

In the early 2000’s, I had a successful run photographing seascapes in local New England. Sales were strong, until they were not…and with the intention being chiefly commercial, I lost the sense of personal expression. Tired of a formulaic approach to photographing seascapes, my subject matter shifted, transitioning to exploring man’s imprint in the landscape. This was not intentional; it was as if I was drawn to tell a different story in the form of decaying mills and cityscapes. This was not my first romance with old textile mills. In the early years of my photographic journey, I could be found traipsing through industrial ruins with my trusty Minolta SRT 101 loaded with Tri-X film. Spending endless hours on the streets of New York and Boston revealed layers of human presence, without the accompanying bodies. The road back to this familiar subject matter was a breath of fresh air.

The cycle is turning again; finding me drawn to the natural world after a long hiatus, it is as seeing anew. This Cape Cod fall afternoon, I’d set out to intentionally photograph low tide serpentine ripples at sunset. Armed with my tripod and Nikon in the waning light of day, I trudged out along the beach towards the distant mud flats. The air, chilly but still, the light clear with the warm tones of late afternoon, provided a perfect contemplative meditative state. The sun sank increasing the contrast making the ripples graphic in appearance. I was alone and immersed in the marsh, feeling connected, filled with sense of contentment. Walking back to the car, I turned for a last look at the marsh. I was awestruck by the beauty of the eastern sky. I couldn’t help but position my tripod, mount the camera, and take a series of exposures of this peaceful timeless scene. The reflective quality of the pink light on the small rivulet of water led my eye into the scene. There is no destination only the moment

The experience of being there, in the soft early evening light, the evocative pastel color of the sky and warm tone of the marsh, I stood in my wool cap, gloves and boots and felt whole. There was a feeling of familiarity, comfort in being out on the beach in the magic of late day light, when the brilliance has dissipated, and the world rests peacefully.

What has changed is me. The spiral nature of growth and repeating intervals of subject matter have placed me in a new orbiting pattern. From the old viewpoint of documenting, letting the subject tell the story, it has evolved to a more experiential, contemplative approach to making images. They are not the same old formulaic seascapes; there is more of me in the picture.

“The Look Back” is a pivotal image. A world of sacred light elevates and expands my vision beyond the seascapes I have made in the past. Even if there is a similarity, it is my approach and connection that has ascended the spiral of growth.

After a day exploring the Badlands, we raced back to our campground ahead of a threatening storm. Foreboding dark clouds massed over the prairie hills advancing to the west, rising higher in the sky, to eventually blot out the sun. This ‘Bonnie & Clyde’ type of relic (right down to the bullet holes) was spotted initially the day before. It rested on private property in the middle of nowhere. Not stopping to make a photograph was out of the question, there was little time to waste. Barbed wire prohibited my closer approach. The image was made with a 70-200 zoom telephoto, still catching a strand of barbed wire in the lower left-hand corner. In my attempt to include the context of isolation in the desolate landscape, distracting electric/phone wires in the sky were necessarily included and removed in post processing.

Arid conditions and relentless baking of the sun washed out the color, faded like an old postcard, making the image timeless. Life captured at 1/125 of a second.

I find objects like this to be a favorite theme in my photographs. ‘Roadside Attractions’ speak of the past both on factual and curiosity levels. The car has a history; it belonged to someone; served a useful purpose; forgotten by the side of the road. I thought of depression era photos, of cars abandoned by families fleeing the Dust Bowl, in search of a better life. A slightly ajar door, empty windows and pock marked with bullet holes, juxtaposed by the growth of yellow flowers. The car was on its way somewhere, with the future destination in view. The mystery lingers.

For this I am a conduit. Emotions of vulnerability, melancholy, and abandonment pervade my images. I document that which is disappearing along with all the stories. It compels me to bear witness to and honor this subject. But the image goes beyond documentation. The metaphor of old abandoned rusted vehicles, once useful now discarded, is one I am sensitive to. We all age, become less relevant, woe be it that we end up discarded and forgotten like this car.

Metaphors are understood differently by each viewer. I see a story with a lingering spirit. As an artist, I bear witness beyond the documentation to the anima or soul of the subject, which is inextricably linked to my values. Another perspective might see only abandonment, decay, and desolation. The image, ‘Roadside Attraction’, that AI called ‘an old rusty car in a field’, is most definitely about so much more. In the melancholy of being left to deteriorate in the vast prairie of the Midwest, a resilience, a beauty in imperfection, resonated with me.

more images of roadside attractions can be found on my website:

https://www.cindywilsonphoto.com/p281369386/e4640e6b2

Ever the perfectionist, there have been a dozen starts and pauses with my intentional Substack writing. My father passed away in June and two weeks later we began a road trip on our camper with the destination of Mt Rushmore. Every day, the road was filed with new sights, some being very similar to others… how could I distinguish one corn field from another on the endless stretch of four lanes of I-90? With attention, every mile revealed a billboard, barn, or giant-sized animal sculpture. I became an observer, using my smartphone to document visual oddities, listing impressions, moments, and natural phenomena.

As we traveled west, the corn grew higher, the eastbound Harleys made their exodus from Sturgis. Midwestern humor in the form of signs like “Toe Service” appeared on the sides of the road. I racked up the GBs on my Nikon, filled an entire journal book with morning pages as I grieved, healed, and rebooted.

There were many takeaways from this experience, the vastness of the country, topological, geological variety and scarred history, industrial and cultural. There is much to process and write about…once life calms down a bit.

I am still enjoying the afterglow of this past week having taught my annual Block Island photography workshop titled ‘Finding your Light’. In preparing for this workshop, I became immersed in the subject matter of slowing down and paying attention, looking beyond the surface of objects to deeper understanding, which in turn, fueled my own creative process. Recognizing the metaphors expressed in Mary Oliver’s poem ‘The Journey’, I pondered how I could feel more authenticity in my own life and work. As my students examined their inner connection to the outer landscape, I felt myself following suit, shedding layers, and responding to my own values in making images. In the coming months, the exercises of awareness we explored during the workshop will continue to be my practice. My experience in teaching this group, seeing their willingness to try new ways of creative seeing, grounded my calling to inspire others to go deeper into their individual expressive visions. The molting that began on my road trip this summer unveiled a new joy in my path as an artist and mentor.

This is the first step in my return to regular posting. Thanks to all of you for your patience as my fog cleared, revealing once again the communion of writing and photography.

I have learned this: the photographs and the experience are two different things. In prioritizing the visual recording with my tendency towards perfection, I lose connection with the awe and wonder of that which we are seeing.

This realization was reinforced by a recent chain of events, from our visit to the Wind Caves National Park. In exploring the Black Hills of South Dakota popular spots require some prior planning, something we are not very good at, favoring more spontaneous travel. We were very lucky to get same-day tickets for the ‘fairgrounds’ tour. The Wind Caves have specific rules about conduct to preserve the pristine character…one piece of discarded gum or handprint on the delicate honeycomb like boxwork formations can destroy the site forever. No water, no food, no bags…so the camera had to stay in the truck. I was left to document the passages with my smartphone.

© Cindy Horovitz Wilson 2025

The iPhone 15 pro has an amazing ability to capture detail in dark environments. Without the distraction of making a perfectly balanced bracketed exposures with a cumbersome machine and without a tripod, I was free to enjoy the experience of this subterranean wonderland. The perspective flattened shadows became shapes, colors warm and rich glowed with artificial lighting. A ranger leads the tour, with a designated participant serving as the caboose. One could easily be lost if separated from the group. Hidden in the darkness of this warren of 168 known miles are large caverns, boxwork and popcorn textured formations. The passage tunnels can be narrow with low ceilings, and off the main corridors, gaping portals of darkness lead to explored and unexplored areas of the cave.

I had intended to complete this post within a day. As previously mentioned, good intentions are made and then life happens. Understanding the experience of touring the Wind Caves is not as immediate as I hoped. However, living with the observations, reflecting for a few days did not diminish the awe and beauty of that world below the expanse of prairie. That I was able to absorb the experience it without being concerned with making perfect photographs is a huge step for me.

© Cindy Horovitz Wilson 2025

In retrospect, trying to make an image with high expectations stifles the emotional response. I found this to be the exact case when touring the Badlands, another surreal environment where the actions of wind and water on limestone has created infinite pinnacles and canyons that overwhelm the senses. The heat and dehydration, jumping in and out of the truck at every pull-off led to a state of lightheadedness. To capture the dimension, depth and align the perfect composition in the 107º heat, with sweat stinging in my eyes, the brightness obscuring the viewfinder/LCD screen, was difficult, leading to 45MB point and shoot captures. The experience was compromised by the camera. Finally, I put the camera away and allowed myself to enjoy the wonderland that unfold before me.

© Cindy Horovitz Wilson 2025

Once, a dear friend and mentor challenged me to sit in a small plaza in Italy without my camera. The result? I can re-enter that world in my minds eye; the buildings, the space, the feeling of being quiet without purpose are woven in me as an experience. Sans camera.

As my journey through life unfolds, that seed, once planted has not been forgotten. For someone who has found expression through the lens, initially, this was a hard lesson for me to grasp. Balancing experience and photography for me has always featured tilted scales. It is in the practice of engaging my senses in the moment that is the way forward.

Reflecting upon this experience of observing the details in cornfield, the varied color and texture of the crops is and the traditions it represents, this is the joy of discovery. Old habits are hard to break, but surely, there is compromise; photography is still my connection and passion; giving space for the experience, allowing the subject to come forward will only make the connection to my unique vision stronger; “something always points the way”

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What is it about Ships?

As part of our westward wandering summer travels in “Eva”, our 20’ travel trailer, one of our destinations was the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, surrounded by the Great Lakes of Huron, Superior and Michigan. In addition to the lakes natural beauty, shipping and the passages on waterways have always intrigued me. The Great Lakes are travel routes for goods originating in the Midwest, like iron ore, grain, and stone. Traveling in the opposite direction, ocean going ships locally nicknamed ‘Salty’s’ bring steel products and other general cargo from Europe. For ten months of the year, ships of all sizes and shapes ply the waters with assigned tasks of carrying people, goods, as well as recreational craft.

What is it about ships that intrigue me so? When I was a child, one of my favorite illustrated children’s books, the Golden Book, featured a center spread with a rendering of boats going in their prescribed directions; freighters, tankers, steamboats, ferries, tugs, in varied sizes and colors, all traveling on a waterway with the backdrop of an turreted and bridged city. What a gateway to and fuel for my imagination! The mystery of where they came from and where they were going holds immense curiosity for me. Every ship carries with it the echoes of previous voyages, and the thrill of those to come. I have watched ships pass in this manner as a child, from the third story room of my grandparent’s Narragansett hotel window. Our visits to their summer lodgings found me racing to the east facing dormer, looking for ships on the horizon.

I am fascinated with the hidden worlds of passages on the high seas. Metaphors abound in reference to ships; the journey of life, the navigation of challenges and the resilience and power of mighty majestic ships of steel, blotting out the background as they pass, day and night. The intangible mystery of anticipating when will a ship appear on the horizon, watching its passage until the time of disappearance, conjures the love of exploration and the freedom of travel. There is beauty in the timeless journeys these passages represent.

In Sault Ste Marie, on the St. Mary’s River in the UP, ships pass within twenty yards of the shore on the way to the Soo Locks. The sound of a ship horn announces its imminent arrival, and all at our campground stand in awe as each vessel passes. With names like ‘Helena G’, a bulk carrier bound for Antwerp, the ‘Kathy McKiel’ heading for Thunder Bay Ontario, each day is a new parade of vessels going to ports to load or unload their precious cargo. In traversing the waters from Lake Huron to Lake Superior, all vessels must enter the Soo Locks. Once the ship is inside the secured ‘lock’ compartment, the water level rises 21 feet; to watch the ship grow 21 feet in elevation is an engineering marvel. After the ship has gone through the locking process, it is released to the next leg of its journey. The voyage may be smooth or fraught with the perils of the seas, the stuff of stories. Museums on the Great Lakes abound with the documentation of shipwrecks, most famous, the Edmund Fitzgerald. On clear and sunny days, it is hard to believe the seas growing angry enough break apart a 729 foot ore carrier. Human ingenuity can build these giants, load mined and grown products transported by truck or rail to fill their cargo holds, raise and lower vessels through locks and chart courses through navigable waterways, but the forces of nature always hold the upper hand.

In the end, there is the obsolescence of old workhorses. On the lakes, they are found tied to rotten docks in out of the way ship and boat yards or ‘on the hard’ above broken asphalt and weeds. Their functional life is complete, they rest, awaiting the fate of the scrapyard, or worse, to decay in place, holding stories of fantastic journeys that no one will hear.

My fascination, my drive to photograph and to write, is to create and uncover stories that I hear, and share them with my viewer/reader. More importantly, these connections bridge the outer reality I see with my inner emotions of self-discovery and spirituality. I am drawn to photograph these voyagers of the waters in a way that respects their function and purpose. This is similar to the way I preserve ruins and relics of architecture and industry, fallen trees and ordinary objects left behind to be forgotten. In my visual portrayals, I acknowledge their relevance. Everything has a dream, a story to tell, as an artist I am driven to document, preserve, and honor.