ON THE ROAD WITH ART
| Introduction by Jim Martin I met Art Wolfe in 1982 when we were both invited on the first Western expedition to the Tibetan side of Everest since the 1930s. Although I hadn’t met him before, we had a connection. I helped open the first North Face store in Seattle in 1975. Our store manager had purchased several black and white prints from Art, his first sales. Years later Art contacted me with an article idea, and I countered with another, which became a cover story on Smithsonian. Over the next few years we collaborated on several books and magazine articles, becoming friends in the process. I grew to admire him both as an artist and as a man, although he possesses a full complement of quirks. I want to give you a sense of life with Art, on the road and back in Seattle. While I can’t pretend to be unbiased, I intend to present a fully rounded picture of him as best I can. Jim Martin is the author and photographer of Digital Photography Outdoors, North Cascades Crest, Sierra, and Planet Ice. He collaborated with Art Wolfe for Masters of Disguise: A natural history of chameleons, Frogs, Hiding Out, and Dragons in the Trees. Jim was the co-author of Extreme Alpinism with the celebrated climber Mark Twight. His photography is represented by Getty Images. Madagascar It had been a hard day on the dirt roads of southern Madagascar. The tired suspension on our battered 4x4 rolled more like canoe in the South Atlantic the farther we drove from Tulear; however, we had some respite each time a tire went flat, which happened three times this day. Our driver mumbled “ratz,” Malagasy for “bad,” when he hoisted the next patched spare. The underlying cable appeared under the worn and disintegrating rubber of the spare. Art was in good spirits despite the tedium and discomfort. The landscape was getting interesting. Spindly euphorbia waved on either side of the red dirt track. Mud huts covered with Coca-Cola emblems were giving way to structures composed of branches and thatch. We were entering the Madagascar of the 19th century. Near sunset we found ourselves driving east toward a massive wall of cloud, a roiling wall of dark blue, the color of ate wrathful Shiva, while the last sun infused the land with a golden glow. Art became agitated. “Look at the light. We have to find something to shoot.” After scanning the horizon frantically, he caught sight of two men in a wooden cart pulled by a Zebu, the Malagasy Brahma bull. Art directed the driver to speed toward the cart. We slid in front of them in a cloud of dust. Art leaped out and held his hand out like a traffic cop asking them to stop. They seemed confused and even alarmed until I pulled out a wad of Malagasy francs. Art snapped their portraits for a few minutes and then ran off to grab whatever images were available before the sun sank behind the horizon. They accepted the francs graciously before resuming their journey, smirking at the madness of strangers. We were well satisfied when we returned to the car. Then, the clouds arrived with a curtain of rain, transforming the dirt road into mud and axle-deep puddles. The bald tires spun so we fishtailed and sank again and again. When the car foundered, Art and I got out to push in sucking knee-deep muck. Darkness fell with tropical speed. As we struggled to move the car, we looked forward to a moderately unpleasant night curled up on the seats. Figures appeared in the spiny forest gloom, some holding spears, others babies. None appeared to be 21. They helped us move the car to dry land near their small village. We put up our tents, grateful for the hospitality. Art brought out his hand puppets. A crowd pressed around him. He offered each kid a handful of shaving crème, which many wrapped in a leaf. He passed out Altoids, which we learned the kids experienced as hot. Art pulled out his Walkman (this was 1991) and placed the headphones on a boy. The kid stood motionless in the dark, the product of a society without telephones or electricity. After a few moments he looked at Art and declared, “Michael Jackson.” A scratchy boom box appeared and the party was on. I went to bed, leaving Art with his new audience. 24 Hours: Light on the Land Don’t travel with Art if you want to relax. Art had invited my wife Terrie and I on a 10-day race through the southwestern US. After landing in Las Vegas, the three of us had already shot in Zion and the Escalante, passed through Death Valley, and stopped at Lee Vining near Mono Lake to shoot that evening and the next morning. Terrie had been exasperated to learn than we would never be in one place long enough for her to brew a cup of coffee in the morning. The evening was a success. A procession of pink clouds lit the sky. We hoped for the same in the morning. The alarm woke us at 4AM and within a few minutes Art and I were speeding to the southern shore while Terrie dozed, hoping to finally brew that cup before we returned. We set up our equipment by the time the first color lit the clouds. Within half an hour, the sun had risen and we were back in the car. We found Terrie caffeinated and content. Our rented Subaru hauled us to the summit of Tioga Pass, the entrance to Yosemite National Park at almost 10,000 feet. We paused in Tuolumne for Art to shoot slow exposures of moving water, scouted for compositions at nearby Olmstead Point, and spent an hour in a mossy forest en route to the Valley. Art was uninterested in the grand panorama of Yosemite. “Great scenery doesn’t necessarily make a great photograph.” After quickly circumnavigating the Valley floor, I drove us to the Mariposa Grove, home to Sequoia gigantea, some of the largest living things on the planet. A few passing clouds squelched the contrast long enough to shoot the forest. Mid-afternoon shadows would soon cover the Valley floor so we returned to photograph Bridalveil Falls. Art used a long lens from the parking lot to shoot rainbows in the mist before the sun winked over the canyon rim. We had an hour 'til sunset, just enough time to get back to Olmstead Point for last light. Dark clouds gathered over the Sierra crest scattering showers across the park. I drove as fast as prudence and Subaru engineering would permit. We couldn’t see a scrap of sunlight. Moments before arriving at Olmstead, beams of golden light reflected off the wet domes. Art ran from the parking lot to the top of the nearest dome, his composition already in mind. Within two minutes the light vanished but Art had his shot. We drove back to Lee Vining for dinner before driving down 395 to Death Valley to shoot the dunes at dawn. When we passed through earlier the windows of the car were hot at midnight. We opened the doors and were met by a blast of baked air. There was no way we could have slept in that heat so we decided to stop on the way back to Las Vegas. We could look forward to another long night and early morning. But we weren’t traveling to relax. Note: In the 24 hours from Mono Lake to Olmstead Point, Art shot four images that were published in Light on the Land: Mono Lake, Mossy Forest, Bridalveil Rainbow, Olmstead Point Sunset. Fuji used a shot of Mono Lake as the centerpiece of an ad campaign for its new film, "Velvia", and a shot of Terrie and me became a book cover. Accidental Master Class In 1989 Art and I traveled to Kenya to gather images and information for a Smithsonian article on chameleons. This was my first trip to Africa and my first with Art. It turned out to be a crash course in photography I learned that an old pillow case filled with beans made a superior nest for a camera poised atop a van. I learned to reload quickly when time was short. Most of all, Art taught me to correlate the quality of light with the way film would “see” it. A large male lion lay in tall dry grass a few feet from my window. I excitedly grabbed my Pentax 6x7 with a 300 lens, ready to take a classic image. Just before I tripped the shutter, I looked back at Art. He shook his head, arms crossed. “No light,” he observed. I shot it anyway. Over the course of the next week, I came to understand what he meant, and when I got the film back, anyone could see the truth of his statement. Glaring midday light washed out the color. Harsh shadows in the grass produced a busy, distracting background. Shadows marred the lion’s face like scar tissue. However, some lessons took longer to absorb. Art carried a sketchbook where he drew the images he wanted to capture on the trip. I didn’t get it. How do you get nature to cooperate? I deduced that he had a set of behaviors or poses in mind and looked for backgrounds and light that would highlight the subject. In the end, he collected a remarkable number of images resembling his sketches. During three weeks of shooting, I gleaned the things that matter most and could see what Art did to make sure every photograph was as powerful as possible. Art’s Rules: 1. Light is everything. Low light is obviously wonderful but diffuse light reduces contrast and enhances color. 2. Use color relationships. 3. Find dynamic, not static, compositions. 4. Eliminate distracting elements 5. Play. Danger Man “This kind of photography isn’t really dangerous. It’s not like being a photojournalist in a war zone.” Art downplays the risk of what he does, but weaving through Delhi traffic, boarding ramshackle light planes in Africa, and walking amid giant carnivores would discomfit many hardened correspondents. On my first trip to Africa with Art, we fled from a charging bull elephant, bouncing along a rutted road in reverse in a aged van just ahead of the trumpeting beast. I was grateful the bucket of bolts started on the first try. A few days later a rhino charged the van. “Art, a rhino’s charging,” I warned. While I awaited the impact, Art was laughing. “Your voice rose two octaves.” He mimicked me with a falsetto so high it made him cough. The rhino broke off its charge. “It was a bluff,” he explained. It’s not always a bluff. On a trip to Nepal to photograph for his book The Living Wild, two rhinos chased Art through high grass to a thick tree. Without the thick roots of the Banyan tree, the angry rhinos would have crushed him. Art admitted to some imprudence when he approached the rhinos on foot, triggering the protective instincts of a two-ton mother. The very next day a sloth bear missed Art by a second, bursting out of the elephant grass and shredding the arm of a guide, who was quickly transported to a hospital. On a trip to the Pantanal in Brazil, Art slowly approached a group of caimans sunning on a river bank. He adjusted his tripod so he could sit with his legs splayed around it. The low angle augmented the impression of menace. Art scooted closer and closer until his feet were inches from the caimans' mouths. Suddenly, one lunged toward Art’s feet. He kicked back out of range and continued shooting. You can see the scuff marks from his kick in the photo in the book. “They wouldn't have killed me, but they could have left a nasty bite,” he shrugs. It’s a good thing wildlife photography isn’t really dangerous. |
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