Developmental Process
a series of photo essays exploring development of film, image, and self
a series of photo essays exploring development of film, image, and self
Invasive
A photo essay made for the Walker Arts Center troubling the concept of invasive species, metaphors of human migration, and what it means to put down roots in a new place. Buckthorn is used as a primary example and medium: film images were developed using an experimental buckthorn developer, then turned into images in anthotype fashion on copies of the executive order defining invasiveness in the United States.
Self Portrait 1, Buckthorn Anthotype on Executive Order 13112, 2023.
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Self Portrait 2, Buckthorn Anthotype on Executive Order 13112, 2023.
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Development as Process
The term “development process” is used to denote which chemistry, temperature, and timing are used to convert the latent image on film into a negative. The details of processing all have their impact on the resulting image.
Ilford HP5+ B&W film image developed with lavender.
My manager’s name was Audrey, stone cold, I loved and hated her.
Two old rows of lavender framed the farm, plants at least six years old. It was financially impertinent to harvest them, so I spent my personal zeal cutting away on dusty afternoons. I spent hours at home stripping lavender sprigs of their flowers, the air so full that I found myself choking, my skin irritated for days. Plant volatiles arise most commonly out of self defense against pests and predators. In small quantities they excite our senses, like the whiff adjacent to rot in a strong cheese. In larger quantities we become closer in scale to the target of said insecticide.
Audrey and I knew each other for almost four years: we worked together across multiple farms. She was my boss, then my colleague, and sometimes my friend. She taught me most of what I know about growing. She impressed upon me an unromantic view of even the most romantic of agriculture. She was the person who called my name across the field when my head gushed blood and my hands seized up. Together we ranked every flavor of Jelly Bean.
We no longer speak. She lives on the last farm I worked at with her lover, our former coworker. A two acre piece of land that still cracks my hands every morning. A place I laugh at bartending now, getting paid four times as much. Where every day a couple of red-tailed hawks would soar overhead searching for the mice under my feet, their screeches tearing my mind from the weeds and towards the sky. Where I learned the garble of crows. A place where snakes were friends and I spent an afternoon crying, untangling a red racer who had gotten itself caught in grape-vine netting, breaking its teeth over and over on my cow-leather gloves. A place where we stole water in a land half desiccated. Where a boy named Warren came and brought us beer he made and smiled at me through the gap in his teeth. A place where every lunch felt like god. Where hail as large as nickels poured in June and I ran into the fray with my boss to save the tender starts and realized I loved him. Where dust storms ripped field-long row cover from our hands and tossed them thousands of feet in the air and we stood watching the white-cloth architecture dancing in the airstream. Where I planned genocide down to the generation with a tank of organic insecticide on my back. Where the insect hotel I made didn’t host any beneficial insects but impressed the organic certifier nonetheless. Where we couldn't keep new hires because the sun was too strong and the pay too little. A place where I brought home cornucopias for my lovers and friends. Where cigarettes and beer at the end of the day felt like god. Where my hands turned to sandpaper and my partner said it hurt to be touched. Where love is trading vegetables for meat for milk for cheese for soap for pottery. Where volunteers did more damage than good, but we kept hosting them anyway because if not for the ideal then why were we there at all. Where lighting cracked so close and strong the world turned white and I jumped into the air then checked my body for injury. Where slow roasting a bushel of Joe Parker peppers on a chilly September morning smelled like god. Where I turned into a manager I hated, and it ruined my relationship with Audrey and their lover, my fellow farmers, my friends.
Lavender is a lovely plant, it doesn’t need much water. In fact, overwatering will dilute the aroma across too much foliage and flower. We like essential oils potent and brief. If I smell one too much, too long, I stop being able to smell it at all, left wondering what I’m doing and how my nose can burnout so quick when at first the smell gave me so much life.
Two old rows of lavender framed the farm, plants at least six years old. It was financially impertinent to harvest them, so I spent my personal zeal cutting away on dusty afternoons. I spent hours at home stripping lavender sprigs of their flowers, the air so full that I found myself choking, my skin irritated for days. Plant volatiles arise most commonly out of self defense against pests and predators. In small quantities they excite our senses, like the whiff adjacent to rot in a strong cheese. In larger quantities we become closer in scale to the target of said insecticide.
Audrey and I knew each other for almost four years: we worked together across multiple farms. She was my boss, then my colleague, and sometimes my friend. She taught me most of what I know about growing. She impressed upon me an unromantic view of even the most romantic of agriculture. She was the person who called my name across the field when my head gushed blood and my hands seized up. Together we ranked every flavor of Jelly Bean.
We no longer speak. She lives on the last farm I worked at with her lover, our former coworker. A two acre piece of land that still cracks my hands every morning. A place I laugh at bartending now, getting paid four times as much. Where every day a couple of red-tailed hawks would soar overhead searching for the mice under my feet, their screeches tearing my mind from the weeds and towards the sky. Where I learned the garble of crows. A place where snakes were friends and I spent an afternoon crying, untangling a red racer who had gotten itself caught in grape-vine netting, breaking its teeth over and over on my cow-leather gloves. A place where we stole water in a land half desiccated. Where a boy named Warren came and brought us beer he made and smiled at me through the gap in his teeth. A place where every lunch felt like god. Where hail as large as nickels poured in June and I ran into the fray with my boss to save the tender starts and realized I loved him. Where dust storms ripped field-long row cover from our hands and tossed them thousands of feet in the air and we stood watching the white-cloth architecture dancing in the airstream. Where I planned genocide down to the generation with a tank of organic insecticide on my back. Where the insect hotel I made didn’t host any beneficial insects but impressed the organic certifier nonetheless. Where we couldn't keep new hires because the sun was too strong and the pay too little. A place where I brought home cornucopias for my lovers and friends. Where cigarettes and beer at the end of the day felt like god. Where my hands turned to sandpaper and my partner said it hurt to be touched. Where love is trading vegetables for meat for milk for cheese for soap for pottery. Where volunteers did more damage than good, but we kept hosting them anyway because if not for the ideal then why were we there at all. Where lighting cracked so close and strong the world turned white and I jumped into the air then checked my body for injury. Where slow roasting a bushel of Joe Parker peppers on a chilly September morning smelled like god. Where I turned into a manager I hated, and it ruined my relationship with Audrey and their lover, my fellow farmers, my friends.
Lavender is a lovely plant, it doesn’t need much water. In fact, overwatering will dilute the aroma across too much foliage and flower. We like essential oils potent and brief. If I smell one too much, too long, I stop being able to smell it at all, left wondering what I’m doing and how my nose can burnout so quick when at first the smell gave me so much life.
Ilford HP5+ B&W film image developed with cota.
Madrid, New Mexico. Not Madrid, but Mad-drid, a reclaiming of the name from conquistadors by colonists. It was the first town in the US to have an electrically lit baseball field during its boomday supplying coal for the furnace of WWII. Then, its population soared to 2000, now, it hovers around 180. There is one main road, two bars, one general store, eleven art galleries, and one white castle on the mesa where LSD dinner parties were thrown in the 70s.
I lived in a cabin on a hillside that was actually a mine tailing, on a property shared with Carrie, Courage, and Mary. Carrie came over to smoke cigarettes and catch up. Carrie’s dog Courage came over to squeal like a pig and work himself into a frenzy, curling and peeing uncontrollably. Mary came over to show her new tattoos and complain about never having sex. Across the road lived an old woman with two donkeys, four dogs, and at least one parrot. I watched those donkeys weather every day of New Mexican sun, rooted in place, their fur a crust, until breaking statue they would bay into the sunset.
Across the valley a ridgeline of boulders frame Santa Fe in the distance. A cave is nestled in the peaks, which technically falls on Johnny One-Time’s land. I was told that if I scrambled up the side closer to town, he probably wouldn't see me. I made it to the cave, a small shelter from beating winds. I looked out at the town I moved to for cheaper rent and good sunsets and peace-of-mind. Where I might reset after the relationship, redefine and readjust. The first few weeks I was so gripped with night terrors I feared the sound of coyotes howling, marking night’s arrival, twilight spent. After climbing down, and walking along the arroyo, I heard a single word shout from above and behind. Glancing back, I saw a lone figure silhouetted amongst the pinons, shifting on the loose scree, facing my direction. I turn forward and keep walking, head down. Years prior, in Portland, Oregon, I overheard two people talking in an antique store about Madrid, describing an idyllic artist getaway.
Down the only road from Madrid, winding through ranches and cacti, there is an intersection a mile from where Alec Baldwin killed someone with a prop gun. Hidden under police tape whipping in the wind, a large patch of cota grows. A floral, reedy plant, it catches the eye mainly with the silvery quality of its stems and bright yellow buds. It thrives in the margins, looking for opportunities where others have overlooked, where it is a bit quieter. Most vital in spring, when the flowers first bloom, is when I found this patch. Spring sun slanted through the windows of my black 2002 Volkswagen Golf, warming the interior against the wind outside. The interior, that now smelled of earth and hops and light flowers, as I drove home towards my halfway intermission out of state.
I lived in a cabin on a hillside that was actually a mine tailing, on a property shared with Carrie, Courage, and Mary. Carrie came over to smoke cigarettes and catch up. Carrie’s dog Courage came over to squeal like a pig and work himself into a frenzy, curling and peeing uncontrollably. Mary came over to show her new tattoos and complain about never having sex. Across the road lived an old woman with two donkeys, four dogs, and at least one parrot. I watched those donkeys weather every day of New Mexican sun, rooted in place, their fur a crust, until breaking statue they would bay into the sunset.
Across the valley a ridgeline of boulders frame Santa Fe in the distance. A cave is nestled in the peaks, which technically falls on Johnny One-Time’s land. I was told that if I scrambled up the side closer to town, he probably wouldn't see me. I made it to the cave, a small shelter from beating winds. I looked out at the town I moved to for cheaper rent and good sunsets and peace-of-mind. Where I might reset after the relationship, redefine and readjust. The first few weeks I was so gripped with night terrors I feared the sound of coyotes howling, marking night’s arrival, twilight spent. After climbing down, and walking along the arroyo, I heard a single word shout from above and behind. Glancing back, I saw a lone figure silhouetted amongst the pinons, shifting on the loose scree, facing my direction. I turn forward and keep walking, head down. Years prior, in Portland, Oregon, I overheard two people talking in an antique store about Madrid, describing an idyllic artist getaway.
Down the only road from Madrid, winding through ranches and cacti, there is an intersection a mile from where Alec Baldwin killed someone with a prop gun. Hidden under police tape whipping in the wind, a large patch of cota grows. A floral, reedy plant, it catches the eye mainly with the silvery quality of its stems and bright yellow buds. It thrives in the margins, looking for opportunities where others have overlooked, where it is a bit quieter. Most vital in spring, when the flowers first bloom, is when I found this patch. Spring sun slanted through the windows of my black 2002 Volkswagen Golf, warming the interior against the wind outside. The interior, that now smelled of earth and hops and light flowers, as I drove home towards my halfway intermission out of state.
Ilford HP5+ B&W film image developed with spit.
I moved to the city for water and love.
They said, spit in my mouth, like this, a gentle drip. They had decided with their friend to spit! in the face was not desired, rather a luxuriating, a releasing of the fluid that is held together with bubbly tension.
Spit breaks down our food, a pre-digestion in the mouth. Amylase, an enzyme in spit, stands ready to cut starches into simple sugars, working so the stomach has an easier time of it.
Like a dye, spit clings everywhere on the body, a bibliography of kisses and touch. It leaves her skin a soft matte luster. When spread thin on the body, it smells of copper, elemental. Sometimes I shower after sex, sometimes I don’t. When I do, and all the dried spit rehydrates it feels a second wave, to run slick again.
Do you know how long it takes to collect spit? It took me three days to collect 150 ml. It’s fun at first, a jar slowly filling with frothy liquid. But when kept in the fridge overnight, then taken out to resume ritual collection, it stares back at you murky and dejected. Spit is ephemeral, sexy when fresh, but speaks more to the dead skin cells when put on ice.
We walk around each other in circles. He peppers me with compliments and it feels like running towards a cliff. His arms feel like cliffs. When I’m on the dancefloor and men stick their hands in my pants they are his. He smells like moonlight on concrete.
Spit neutralizes pH swings from acidic food and cleans wounds of the mouth. It is why that bite on the inside of your cheek, while doubled in pain from twice-bite, heals in but a day or two. Antibodies are constantly slushing around our mouth, occasionally into others.
I can tell what you want to say. The struggle in that downward glance, of how seeing me profess surgical tears is painful, you want to shake my shoulders and say run and live! But I’m obstinate, reluctant to heed the thoughts of my editor.
Spit is a lubricant for our teeth. It may sound small, but the slight viscous fluid between our enamel is enough to prevent many a chip. Biting, grinding, masticating, all very chippable activities.
Our teeth clink on one another, as they do when you aren't used to the shape of someone's mouth yet. Aren't used to the fit and rhythm of kissing. How, in that initial kiss so much is communicated. How fervent is your desire? How in control of your body do you feel? How, sunrays kiss our cheeks on the chilly riverbank while we kiss each other, and it feels so good that we can’t help but smile through our pressed lips. Our teeth touch, and it's a reminder of how easy we chip.
I moved to the city for water and love. Spit!
They said, spit in my mouth, like this, a gentle drip. They had decided with their friend to spit! in the face was not desired, rather a luxuriating, a releasing of the fluid that is held together with bubbly tension.
Spit breaks down our food, a pre-digestion in the mouth. Amylase, an enzyme in spit, stands ready to cut starches into simple sugars, working so the stomach has an easier time of it.
Like a dye, spit clings everywhere on the body, a bibliography of kisses and touch. It leaves her skin a soft matte luster. When spread thin on the body, it smells of copper, elemental. Sometimes I shower after sex, sometimes I don’t. When I do, and all the dried spit rehydrates it feels a second wave, to run slick again.
Do you know how long it takes to collect spit? It took me three days to collect 150 ml. It’s fun at first, a jar slowly filling with frothy liquid. But when kept in the fridge overnight, then taken out to resume ritual collection, it stares back at you murky and dejected. Spit is ephemeral, sexy when fresh, but speaks more to the dead skin cells when put on ice.
We walk around each other in circles. He peppers me with compliments and it feels like running towards a cliff. His arms feel like cliffs. When I’m on the dancefloor and men stick their hands in my pants they are his. He smells like moonlight on concrete.
Spit neutralizes pH swings from acidic food and cleans wounds of the mouth. It is why that bite on the inside of your cheek, while doubled in pain from twice-bite, heals in but a day or two. Antibodies are constantly slushing around our mouth, occasionally into others.
I can tell what you want to say. The struggle in that downward glance, of how seeing me profess surgical tears is painful, you want to shake my shoulders and say run and live! But I’m obstinate, reluctant to heed the thoughts of my editor.
Spit is a lubricant for our teeth. It may sound small, but the slight viscous fluid between our enamel is enough to prevent many a chip. Biting, grinding, masticating, all very chippable activities.
Our teeth clink on one another, as they do when you aren't used to the shape of someone's mouth yet. Aren't used to the fit and rhythm of kissing. How, in that initial kiss so much is communicated. How fervent is your desire? How in control of your body do you feel? How, sunrays kiss our cheeks on the chilly riverbank while we kiss each other, and it feels so good that we can’t help but smile through our pressed lips. Our teeth touch, and it's a reminder of how easy we chip.
I moved to the city for water and love. Spit!