Reading · More or Less About the Photo

Snow has a way of making the world feel briefly equal and clean. For photographers, that illusion is both a gift and a countdown.

A pure snow-covered beach pointing towards sunrise over Lake Superior.

Lately, I’ve been reading Emily Dickinson for another project that I’m working on (see: Weather From the Hill), and her It sifts from Leaden Sieves struck me as a perfect winter poem. I read it as a meditation on how democratic winter snow can be. It covers everything and nothing, no matter how regal, mountains included, is spared. Because it is so beautiful, it equalizes everything. Even a simple fence post becomes as elegant as royalty when wrapped in snow.

Ice and snow mix on a curved line and point toward muted pink clouds over Lake Superior.

In photography, it’s much the same. Snow simplifies details and removes them from our view, no matter how visually elevated they once were, and no matter how unphotogenic they may have been before the storm. When snow remains unbroken, it makes almost any scene feel pure.

Even when I walk on fresh snow, I feel hesitant to break its surface, to disturb the illusion that everything is equal and untouched. Beneath that surface, we know chaos thrives. And chaos makes for terrible photos.

Ice covers Lake Superior at sunrise and on the ice are countless frost flowers.

So I tiptoe along, afraid to leave a mark and disturb an area that might later become a part of a photo. I cringe at every step, because once the illusion is shattered, there’s no returning until the next storm.

Pure snow doesn’t last long. Once it’s soiled, not even the most royal morning light, in what we assume is its golden power, can make a repair.

Here is Dickinson’s poem in its entirety.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

It sifts from Leaden Sieves -
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road -
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain -
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again -
It reaches to the Fence -
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces -
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack - and Stem -
A Summer’s empty Room -
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them -
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen -
Then stills its Artisans - like Ghosts -
Denying they have been -

The Democracy of Snow

Comments